


The Book Of The Stranger

by Salon_Kitty



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Incest, all kinda incest, and have no dog in this fight, but I have affection for all of these characters and will attempt to do them justice warts and all, dany comes a lot later, heed the warnings, i don't know why no one ever mentions this, i'm no shipper sir, i'm sticking to canon but will look to fill in the gaps left amidst all that teleporting, jon and sansa are seriously damaged people, loads of incest, they have yet to deal with their traumas, this is not a love story, this is pretty dark, this isn't a fix it fic, to paraphrase johnny rotten, will follow the show from 6x09 on, with my own debased ideas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 40
Words: 400,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21902830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salon_Kitty/pseuds/Salon_Kitty
Summary: Jon and Sansa have retaken Winterfell and now have to deal with each other. The dead are coming, but what of the living? Jon is depressed, Sansa is ignited. Yet they need to find a way to move forward together.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen, Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, Melisandre of Asshai/Jon Snow, Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark
Comments: 967
Kudos: 625





	1. I.Winterfell

**Author's Note:**

> Just my take on what might have occurred between these characters if we were looking a little harder. Many many thanks and kisses to my beta, firesign, who helped me birth this story, with me wringing my hands over every little thing. I'm a bit rusty as its been two years since I've posted anything on this site after some serious writers block. This is my first Game of Thrones fanfic, but S8 inspired me, in a surprisingly creative way.
> 
> Additional tags may come later, but please note, this isn't meant to be either for jonsa or jonerys, it's just about what these characters are going through. Jon and Sansa have a unique relationship, which is what I'm aiming to explore in the first 10-14 chapters. The Dragonstone chapters and beyond will have Jon/Dany called out in the notes.  
> Artwork created by the incredible mimreads.

**i.**

_Jon … where is he?_

Jon Snow stormed the halls of the Great Keep like a man possessed.

His last kill sung in the bones of his hands and he manically flexed his fingers to let the violence dissipate, Ramsay’s battered, grinning face still swimming before him like a ghoul. The din of dying screams remained in his ears, his blood a rushing sound as he systematically made his way through every room of the castle. Seeing reminders of the Bolton’s occupation only enraged him further, the offenses providing a fresh assault with every object he walked by not bearing a familiar stamp. The moment they had entered the keep he’d sent his men to rip down those wretched banners, not just for his own sanity but for Sansa’s as well. A bonfire outside the East gate was greedily devouring their sigils, soldiers and Freefolk mounting bolts of the Stark colors in their place. Jon had given his orders before making his way to the steps of the family quarters. This section of Winterfell was a tomb now and Jon barreled through the doors of each chamber with voices clamoring in his head, his half siblings’ rooms dimly recognizable as long forgotten memories shimmered from the corners.

But Jon wasn’t searching for ghosts; he was looking for _her_. Down in the courtyard, when they’d brought him his brother’s body, still just a boy, Jon had forced himself to look into that face and silently beg forgiveness. What did it mean that Rickon lay lifeless across the stone crypts next to his father when Jon still stood, his heart beating in his chest when it had no right to? _Maybe you're only needed for this small part of his plan and nothing else. Maybe he brought you here to die again._

The thought had sickened him then, her answers only filling him with despair, yet as he’d stood before Ramsay’s advancing army, his brother riddled with arrows at his back, it had suddenly seemed destined. He’d failed. This Lord of Light had no idea what he was doing. Jon should have stayed dead yet there he was, ready to be struck down a second time. But even as that dawning ate through him, he had clung to life, his sword gutting every Bolton and Karstark man in his way. Ascending through the roiling mass of bodies heaped upon him as if sprung from the birthing canal, Jon had gasped for breath once more. Had the red witch seen this fate in the flames? Could he trust anything she told him? Sansa’s face flashed before him and he grimaced. Jon was tired of being lied to.

_If the Lord didn’t want me to bring you back, how did I bring you back? I have no power. Only what he gives me and he gave me you._

Jon wanted to scream till he was hoarse, till there was nothing left of him. Exhaustion laid siege to every muscle in his body but his blood still roared. Killing hadn’t been enough to slake this madness. A fire still raged within him. The last he had seen her she had been smirking down upon him from the covered bridge, that air of smugness wrapped about her as tightly as her robes, while he sent his baby brother to sleep forever with the dead below. Jon had needed to tend to their wounded then, setting up the Great Hall for triage before sweeping through the ground floor to rally the servants left behind, a troubled looking Davos and a cadre of his men trailing behind him. He was at least heartened to see some familiar faces still in service to Winterfell. It was no small feat that they’d managed to survive under Ramsay’s cruelty. Old Nan was brought to the kitchens as his soldiers bustled through and she cried out when she saw him, her fingers gripping his arm like talons as she smiled wearily through her tears. But Jon had little time for reminisces. He left Davos in charge of getting their wounded nursed and fed before stalking off to discover what other dishonor the Boltons had wreaked upon his family’s home.

And then there was his sister.

Sansa had watched them carry Rickon’s body away with nary a blink while her concern stayed true to her vengeance, demanding to be told the whereabouts of her husband’s holding cell. Jon could still feel the impact of Ramsay’s battered cheek in his fists, the pure exhilaration that coursed through him as they pounded into soft flesh and cracked bone hard to ignore, and for that brief moment he had been caught in the grip of a beautiful clarity - he was a killer, above all else. Then Sansa was stood in front of him and her expression had stopped Jon cold. _He’s mine,_ her eyes declared and in that face he saw the truth of her _._ Jon had left Bolton for her in the kennels, making sure to reveal to her when she came asking that his hounds hadn’t been fed in a week. He no longer questioned whether his sister had the stomach to see it through. He understood the reach of her revenge the moment he saw the knights of the Vale charging onto the field, his shock as vivid as his relief. Let the monster be torn apart, it mattered naught in the end. There was nothing awaiting Ramsay in the afterlife; no hellfire but no comfort, either. Only darkness. Jon was almost jealous.

As he landed on a familiar path, he stopped abruptly, realizing he was in front of his father’s chambers. For a tantalizing second, Jon could hear Ned’s voice ring out from the other side of the wood, calling his name. His grief still fresh and with a grim determination, he kicked open the door, sword drawn and ready to fight whatever lay in wait. The very air seemed to vibrate from the door’s crash against the stone as dust motes eddied before him. He stepped inside and cast a look about the place, his breaths ragged but his body still. Jon couldn’t recall the last time he’d been allowed in here and a sudden reverence took hold of him.

It was a hallowed space. Catelyn would have chased him out had she still been alive and Jon sucked in a breath at the remembrance, that old shame quick to warm his skin. _You don’t belong here,_ he heard the room whisper _._ He glanced around for any sign of his father’s things but saw little of him left to suggest the great man had once slept here; no pillows bearing stitched direwolves tucked away in the corners, no brushes holding strands of his father’s hair. Even the design of the bedspread favored the castle’s most recent residents with a bold red cross. Only the furniture served as the last vestiges of the Stark legacy. Jon’s breath caught in his throat again as a powerful wave of loss slammed into him. They were all gone. It was just him and Sansa now. A murdered lord commander and a child bride twice over. What did that mean for the North?

He heard footsteps approaching and Jon stepped backwards into the hallway. A young servant boy stopped short in his tracks, his mouth dropped open in surprise.

“Lord Sta-my lord!” he stammered. “I was told – I came to find out if you’d be needin’ me help, m’ lord.”

“Perhaps.” He didn’t recognize the boy and eyed him warily. How many families loyal to the Starks had Ramsay spared? “What is your name?” The boy’s eyes widened with fear at the question. “How long have you served the Boltons here at Winterfell?”

“Hollis, m’lord. I- I’ve only been ‘ere going on ‘alf a year. But me mum served the Starks her whole life. Till,” his eyes dropped to his feet. “Till Lord Bolton found her a traitor, ser.”

“I see. I’m very sorry.” Jon glanced back at the room behind him. “Were these bedchambers occupied by Roose Bolton? Or his son?” It was the largest in the Keep. It stood to reason that one of them would have taken it as their own.

“It belonged to the elder Lord Bolton, m’lord, what with his lady wife, too. Before… before they passed.”

“I want it cleared of all of their belongings,” he commanded, “and prepared for the Lady Sansa. She’s the Lady of Winterfell now. Find those who know to burn anything that doesn’t belong here.” His sister shouldn’t have to return to her old room ever again. She’d told him enough of what had happened there. He craned his neck and stared toward the end of the hall where Rickon’s and Bran’s rooms awaited his inspection. Along the corridor, long flames in their sconces licked the stones, leaving wild shadows dancing on the walls. The light from outside had disappeared, night had fallen. Jon had no idea how many hours had passed since they’d retaken the castle but his body still thrummed with a lust for blood, leaving a copper tang in his mouth. And blood made him think of the red woman’s robes. How they had slid off milky skin so he could cup a warm breast over a beating heart. _There’s a power in you._ Jon turned to the young boy.

“Go and get your supper with the rest, Hollis. You can see to her Lady’s chambers in the morning.”

“Yes, Lord Star – Snow.” The boy blushed and gave a short bow before turning on his heel and running in the other direction.

But Jon was already fast afoot, heading to the west end of the corridor where his little brother would have been truly sleeping had Jon not failed him utterly. The pain of that realization was as sharp as the knife that had pierced his heart. He swept through the doorway intent on restoring some honour to Rickon’s childhood space – now set to become another shrine to the dead – if only to rid it of the evil that had permeated its walls. As he stepped inside, Jon drew up sharp with a hard breath, discovering that the room was already occupied by the very guest he sought. Her back was to him as she stood before the hearth, a fire inside already spitting and crackling with its lurching flames.

“What are you doing in here?” he demanded in a low rumble. Blood pulsed in his vision, his heart still hammering in his chest. Melisandre slowly turned to him.

“Speaking with your brother, my prince,” she remarked with a curve of her lips. The ruby at her throat caught the light of the fire and glowed brightly. She had unpinned her hair, the auburn tresses loose and glinting with flame. The scarves were gone, her dress cut low; the modest and matronly figure she’d become after Stannis’ defeat no longer here. “I feel him near.”

“How dare you speak of him,” Jon seethed, his fury returned as he advanced towards her. “You lied! You said your god brought me here to save him! But instead I had to watch him be murdered in front of me. What wretchedness have you bound me to?”

“I never said this,” the priestess hurled back. “The Lord of Light saw fit to bring you back for a purpose, yes. But it was not for your brother. There is more at stake than simply the lives of your family, Jon Snow, you know this. You’ve seen the threat coming. You are needed in this fight. He has demanded it.”

“Aye, and what of my demands?” he snarled. “To see my brothers and sisters returned to their home, not their graves. What must be the fate of Arya? And of Bran? Am I here only to see them snatched away, too? Are they already dead? Why does your god play with me so cruelly?”

It was too great a horror to consider, that he was merely to be a witness to the increasing extinction of his family. And what of Sansa? Would he fail her, too? He conjured her face on the eve of the battle again, that grim resolve in her features as she entreated him not to fall into Ramsay’s trap. Yet what could he have done with the paltry bits of information she’d given him? He didn’t realize what she had meant then, and it had cost them their brother. Why hadn’t she made him understand? The recklessness from that moment shamed him now, but he was too angry to wallow in it. Melisandre came towards him, the jewel now pulsing at her throat, her face softened in the light.

“My prince, he plays with us all.”

Jon felt his blood rise up again, the thunder of horse hooves and men dying still in his ears. Saw his hands slice through the air as Longclaw cut through flesh and bone, the terror in their eyes before the life left them. And what had his death looked like? What had this woman seen in his corpse as she washed him of his blood? Jon’s breaths ripped through his lungs. He was alive and he was standing here because of her. Her hands had brought him to life. He stared at her neck again as the red light filled his vision, let his eyes wander down the length of her as the seam in her robes reminded him how quick she was to remove them. Jon stepped closer to her, feeling parts of his body stiffen and swell. What had she done to him as he lay there, cold and still?

“I’m no prince,” he stated, his voice rough. “Stop mocking me.”

“The battle still rages in you, my lord. Let me see to it.” She reached for him, her fingers swiping across his forehead to move a stray hair before trailing down the side of his face to cup his chin. “Men who have cheated death have a need to remind themselves they live. Let yourself feel this, Jon Snow. You are a man, not a god. The flesh needs what it needs.” She delicately rubbed her thumb over and across his lips and Jon reacted instantly, grabbing her wrist before pulling her flush against him. He put a hand around her neck.

“Do not toy with me,” Jon warned. He dragged her face up to his while under his fingers he felt the delicate ticking in the hollow of her throat. It was a slow and steady beat. Melisandre’s face held no fear, no alarm. Her mouth curved into a small smile once more and Jon saw the world flash red again. _For the watch,_ a voice hissed in his head before he felt ice in his gut. He pressed his mouth to hers. Something loosened inside of him, something dark and tarry, bringing a growl in his throat as he tore at her bottom lip. He wanted to leave marks on her, wanted to bite at her breasts, Jon’s hands grappling with hers as they both groped for the clasp to unhook the front of her dress. Her robes dropped to the floor and wreathed around her feet as Jon bent her body back, his head dropped to her chest to suckle the skin there, mouth hot as it enveloped first a nipple, then more of her breast. In all his life, Jon had never felt this need burn through him. He’d had a youthful passion with Ygritte, and that boy had loved her true, but this … this _life_ was something else entirely. He wanted to devour this woman, like a beast ripping apart its dinner. Jon dragged his lips back and sucked harder, her nipple captured in his teeth. Her moans were far away, the blood still rushing as it filled his head, and her hands pressed to the back of his neck, a tacit approval to continue. The power and strength he’d felt in battle surged through him and locked into his limbs, his back, his cock. He slid his hand between her legs, felt the slick arousal she had for him there, and Jon unraveled. This was real. He was real. A face flashed behind his eyes, blue and gasping, Olly hanging in his noose, dissolving into Rickon’s shock as the spear punctured his heart. He picked her up, her body a weightless thing, and let her wrap her legs around his waist as he dropped to his knees. The skins spread before the hearth were enough; he would not take her on his dead brother’s bed.

“Jon Snow. Let me free you,” the priestess said as he bent her to the ground, pushing away the ghosts that invaded his mind while her fingers latched onto the buckles and straps of his armor. He could still smell the blood of other men on him but he allowed her to work the fastenings loose, leaned back so he could help her remove his leathers with frantic hands. She raised herself up on her knees to meet him as she worked; having to stand eventually as the weight of his brigandine was heavy and cumbersome. She peeled it off, filth still present on the remainder of his armor, and her taut belly hovered near his mouth while she moved, the scent from between her thighs making his mouth water until he gripped her by the hips and flipped her to her back, his need a terrible hunger. Jon was impatient and she’d seen too much of him already. He pulled up the hem of his tunic so he could reach for his breeches, but her hands were there at his laces first and he let her cup him, felt himself grow harder in her grip as she slid his breeches down over his arse. There was a rumble in his throat again, as he leaned down to graze at another breast. Then he was shifting above her, his palm pressed to the inside of her thigh as she stroked him, heat still scouring him from his innards to travel up his spine.

When he entered her, the heat was extinguished instantly. Jon felt cold to the bone; it stemmed from his wounds and traveled through his body, the night pressing in on all sides, an inky blackness, silence, until there was only a single sound, just his heart beating. It slowed; a dull and petering thud, he heard his breaths come sharp, felt his hips thrust forward like a knife into a belly, the pace leisurely for a few brief moments.

And then there was a return to brightness. He felt the flames of the fire beside them like tiny beasts, they licked and caressed his skin, he could see it, and then his movements seemed to speed up. Jon could hear himself now, he was grunting while he rutted into her, Melisandre’s moans an aria in the quiet of the room as she met his thrusts, and that ache spread through him, his hips snapping as he pounded into the milky white body beneath him. He bent his head to watch their joining, saw her hair there, kissed by fire. A deep longing spiraled from his gut, a scream in his chest which made its way into his throat. The dead swarmed around him reaching with spindly fingers, his victims as well as his loved ones, and he closed his eyes to their beseeching and damning faces. He groaned louder, along with her, this woman who wasn’t Ygritte, who’d seen him with holes in his body, meat on a table. She said he wasn’t a god, but was he even a man? _Why_ was he? Jon moved faster, the fire in his brain still not soothed. He used his teeth again, screeching into the flesh under her breast as he gnashed hold of her. He wanted blood. Saw Ramsay’s face again, breaking apart under his fists, had wanted to see that skull split open.

_Jon._

Sansa’s troubled face appeared in his mind for a blinding, shining moment right before his body gave over to the one that held him. He shouted as he peaked, the heels of Melisandre’s feet pressed to his backside goading him to finish. She went still as his body continued jerking, her touch to the back of his head a steady caress. Jon dropped on top of her, stunned into silence.

“My god is in you, my prince,” she said aloud, startling him. He breathed heavy as she stroked his head, the fever not yet abated, but he would not look at her. “You are the son of fire, you are the warrior of the Light,” Melisandre crooned. “I can show you. You merely need to turn your head.”

Jon listened to the snaps and wheezes of the fire beside them and sat up suddenly, realizing he was still dressed. “No,” he told her, as he began to unlace his gambeson. He pulled it over his head and took the shirt he wore underneath with it then sat upon the stone to take off his boots, the heat on his naked back warming him through.

“I don’t need visions. I would rather you show me life.”

* * *

_Your words will disappear. Your house will disappear. Your name will disappear. All memory of you will disappear._

Sansa wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders as she made her way to the Great Hall, her steps slow and measured. Ramsay’s screams had finally died in the night air but they still resounded in her head, the chunks of flesh being ripped from his face stuck fast to her vision as her feet took her back to the castle. The small smile that had begun as she walked away from him had now stretched to a triumphant grin. Ramsay would never hurt her again, she had seen to that. Sansa had seen to the defeat of his house, the end of his legitimized name, the end of his body.

 _With Littlefinger’s help_.

Yes, she now owed Littlefinger more than was prudent. He would likely expect something in return for bringing the Knights of the Vale to her aid. _And what of Jon?_ _What will he demand?_ Sansa stopped in her tracks and turned to look around the grounds of her home, the remnants of battle still apparent in the courtyard. Her eyes fell to the spot where he’d laid Ramsay out. Saw him, a feral and savage thing, beating Ramsay to the death, if she had let him. He’d stopped as soon as he saw her. Had given Ramsay to her to see to her justice. Her ferocious, wounded brother.

 _Half brother_ , a raspy voice repeated in her ear.

Sansa shook her head to cast the voice to the winds. She resumed her steps, faster now that she was at the doors. She needed to explain things to Jon, make him understand why she had kept the Vale army’s proximity from him. _When will we have a larger force?! We’ve pleaded with every house that’ll have us!_ But it hadn’t been enough, even he had seen that. _No, it’s not enough, it’s what we have!_ Jon’s impassioned voice rang through her, pushing thoughts of Ramsay away. She knew he would fail, could see clearly that it was Jon who had been overconfident. Yet how could she have told her brother that, made him listen to her? Sansa would have done anything to make sure that Ramsay could never take her again. Jon had to understand that. _If Ramsay wins, I’m not going back there alive._ He had promised her that he’d protect her, but he hadn’t even been able to protect himself. She saw him on the field again, rushing off to the South gate with a giant at his flank, noble and honourable Jon. So much like her father it sometimes hurt to look at him.

When she arrived at last in the Great Hall, she discovered it had become an infirmary, tables covered with soldiers as men and women milled about providing care to the wounded. Sansa scoured the hall for any sighting of Jon but could not find his black hair, curls scooped into a knot, amidst the crowd. Instead, she spotted Ser Davos by her father’s table at the other end of the hall, speaking to a few of their men and a Wildling as he wiped his hands clean with a cloth, his sleeves pushed up past his elbows. She sped towards him, eager to find Jon now and make her confession.

“Ser Davos,” she called breathlessly as she gained closer to him. “I’m looking for Jon. Have you seen him?” The men turned to her and bowed, the soldiers stepping away as Davos put aside the bloodied rag.

“Aye, he was here in the last hour, my lady.” He nodded to the collected nursemaids and patients crowding the tables. “He left his orders for the men, asked me to assemble the wounded, spoke to the servants. And then said he was off to see your family’s keep. I assume to assess the … damage.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I haven’t seen him since.” Davos cocked his head to the side as he appraised her. “And you, my lady? How are you holding up? Is there anything I can get for you? There’s food prepared in the kitchens. I can have the servants get you something to eat, perhaps.”

“I don’t want food,” she said. The very thought made her queasy, an image of bloodied meat, the dogs tearing into flesh, wrenching an eye free, a throat in pieces, the sounds it made as their fangs gleamed. “I just want my brother.”

“Of course,” he acknowledged with a curt nod. “I should think he is still up there roaming the chambers.” Davos cast his eyes to his hands, spreading what was left of his fingers with upturned palms before speaking again. “I should like to speak to him as well, when you find him.” His manner was sheepish as he looked up at her. “I’ve been looking for someone, too. Have you seen the Red woman about, my lady?”

“No, Ser Davos. I’ve been rather occupied at the kennels.”

He nodded again, understanding in his eyes. Sansa left her brother’s man and retraced her steps as she made her way back towards the Great Keep. She had been critical of Ser Davos at first, while she and Jon travelled to speak to the Northern lords. He was an outsider; he knew nothing of the North and its people. But it had not escaped her notice how protective he was of Jon at every turn, speaking on Jon’s behalf where he could. There was something there between them, a loyalty that she could only intuit had begun with her brother’s curious resurrection. If that was, in fact, what had happened. She still couldn’t comprehend it, and even considered that the experience, such as it was, had affected his decisions in battle. How could it not? She and Jon had never been close as children, but the difference to the sullen boy she had known back then to the man who had greeted her at Castle Black with such warmth and acceptance had been only half the change she saw present in him. There was a shadow in his eyes, a lingering resignation that held no hope or joy. She worried that her brother had given up, that he had only gone into battle to fulfill an obligation to her with no intention of surviving it. Writing to Littlefinger, having to ingratiate herself to the man after all he’d done to her, she thought it necessary, not only for her life but to save at least one of her brothers in the act. Sansa had swallowed her pride, hearing her condemning words to Baelish at their meeting in Mole’s Town mock her as she relented, writing the words that acknowledged his importance to her. What would Jon have done if she had told him that Littlefinger was bringing an army? _Something rash,_ that raspy voice said. Yes, she couldn’t trust Jon to act coldly. He would have found fault with her reasoning, likely under a misguided attempt to protect her. Jon was no match for Lord Baelish. But he could lead men. Sansa had seen that at least. And she had needed his men.

_Would you like to hear about our wedding night?_

She saw Littlefinger’s face in that meeting again. Had heard his remorse plainly enough, whether or not she believed it. _But the rest of me. He did what he liked with the rest of me._ She had hoped that his guilt in this matter, if that’s what it had truly been, could work to her advantage. That perhaps she could manipulate the master manipulator into giving her what she needed as he sought to repair the damage from his mistakes. But Sansa needed her mentor no longer. She would decide her fate from now on. And Jon was attached to that fate, as surely as his reputation which would spread across the kingdoms with the news of their victory. Jon was his father’s son, the people would see it. What would they think of _her_ , she wondered, Ned and Catelyn’s trueborn daughter? She thought back to the sharp words from little Lady Mormont. It was important that she and Jon remain a united front, particularly in the face of any interference from Lord Baelish. It would be best for both of their interests, although she could admit that she had no idea what her brother’s intentions were now that they had retaken their home. Did Jon even consider Wintefell his home anymore? These were answers she needed from him before they could strategize a way forward.

Sansa’s concentration was so focused on her brother as she’d entered the keep that she hadn’t noticed she’d walked straight to her chambers. She froze mid-step with her hand outstretched towards the knob, a panic blooming in her chest as she studied the door before her. She heard her own scream behind it and stumbled backwards. This was no longer a childhood sanctuary, but a prison. She couldn’t return here. Ramsay’s screams joined her own in her ears, yet she glanced about her surroundings expecting to see him rush to her from the shadows, tattered flesh hanging from his skull. _My lovely wife._

_No, he’s dead. You saw it. The hounds are still feasting on his warm body._

She shivered and turned away from her room, setting her sights on the next door down. A memory of Arya sprang forth, of her standing in the doorway shouting at her, with a face screwed up in fury before the door was slammed shut. How father had come running then. _Arya, come out here right now and apologize to your sister!_ She would give anything to hear her sister yell at her now. Sansa wrapped her cloak tighter and shuffled past, leaving both rooms behind her. She took a turn at the bend and walked down the path to her parents chambers. She wondered half heartedly where she would even sleep tonight. Would sleep even come? The thrill of her kill hadn’t left her yet. She felt it in her toes, in her spine, imagining her hair on the crown of her head fashioned into a static halo, as though lightning coursed through her. Jon was still to be found; she would make him listen to her if it took all night.

Just then, as if in answer, she heard a soft padding of feet behind her, sharp clicks on the stones. Sansa whirled around expecting Ramsay again, her heart thudding loudly in her ears, only to see a massive white body appear out of the enveloping darkness. Her brother’s direwolf loped towards her, silent as he watched her with red eyes.

“Ghost, you scared me,” she chided. “Are you looking for him, too?”

Ghost went on ahead of her then stopped. The beast looked back once before moving forward with assured steps, his message clear. Sansa followed.

They were passing her parent’s chambers when she heard it. A woman’s startled cry that echoed against the stones briefly. Sansa froze again, her nerves pulled taut. It came from farther down the corridor, where the boys’ rooms had been. She had no idea who had been using them since, as Ramsay had given her so little freedom to explore the castle when she was even allowed out of her room. Where had Myranda slept? It pained her to think of the kennel master’s vile daughter inhabiting the bedchamber of her sweet brothers, but Myranda was dead now, another meal for the hounds most like. She took a few tentative steps forward wishing she had brought a weapon with her. She hadn’t given a thought to danger with her monster so squarely destroyed but there were always monsters, one to be supplanted by another.

Ghost continued his trek undeterred, so her steps quickened to catch up to him. Ghost was a weapon, she reminded herself. He would protect her as surely and as ruthlessly as Jon. The direwolf was making its way straight towards Bran’s door; she could see a sliver of light where it stood slightly ajar. The woman’s voice came again, this time a long moan, and Sansa paused, no longer sure she should be here. But Ghost pushed his nose against the wood and pressed on, as if he were expected, and as the door widened, Sansa sucked in a breath at the tableau depicted in its gap.

It was the priestess. She saw the Lady Melisandre, her fingers buried in a shock of black curls, and her expression molded into one of wanton pleasure. Her legs were crossed at the small of her brother’s naked back. Sansa stood rooted to the stones under her feet, unable to move as she watched her brother and the witch move in tandem, his hips thrusting upwards while his fingers gripped the woman’s shoulders, drawing her into him, his head at her breasts as they lay together on the hearth. She could hear him, his grunts more like the warning growls of his wolf, the woman’s mouth open as she moaned again. Sansa stared transfixed as Ghost loped towards them, settling himself near the fire as though he were quite at ease with his master’s proclivities.

This was wrong. She shouldn’t be watching. Yet she couldn’t help to be fascinated by the scene, seeing Jon – quiet, stolid Jon – so unreservedly carnal. Sansa had just watched her rapist being ripped apart and her gaze had been steadfast, never once wavering as the hounds tore at him. She wouldn’t look away from this, either. Sansa was no longer afraid to peer into the darkness that lay in men’s hearts. She would see what she needed to see.

Jon groaned as he shifted to his knees and the witch’s body was raised with his for a moment. Then he was grabbing hold of her waist and bringing her down on him in quick thrusts, the woman’s hands now laced together at his neck. Sansa could see acres of pale skin, his backside pumping rhythmically and power in his legs as their two bodies came together again and again. Good, noble Jon. Father’s bastard. It was suddenly too much to absorb, she felt dizzy and airless the longer she stood there. Another moan made Sansa peel her eyes from her brother’s body to glance up at the woman’s face, wanting to see the desire captured there, but instead she saw a face staring back at _her._ She locked eyes with the priestess. A choked noise escaped Sansa’s throat and she stepped back, startled. The woman smiled wickedly and curled her fingers tighter around Jon, like a hawk clutching a small wriggling body in its talons. “ _My prince_ ,” Sansa heard her hiss into her brother’s ear and he merely grunted again, the sound of their bodies slapping together growing louder with every second that Sansa stood there. Shame flooded her then, flame bursting in her cheeks, and finally she could move, her senses coming awake as she soundlessly darted away.

As soon as she could no longer see them, Sansa began to run.

* * *

The water’s heat sank into his bones as Jon lay back against the copper tub. Dirt floated on the surface, the bathwater turned a sanguine hue, but it felt glorious all the same. Jon flexed his hands underwater, his knuckles hot and throbbing, while delicate fingers massaged his scalp, hair dripping over the side as the red woman worked her magic. Jon breathed a relaxed sigh, his body feeling released from the earlier chaos within him. Though not quite a catharsis, Jon could at least admit that killing and fucking often ran on the same strands of mortality that powered every man, that it was sometimes hard to not respond similarly to both. He could forgive himself this one indiscretion, he decided. There was plenty else to punish himself for in the days to come. With the battle won, what drove him now was the looming threat, as Melisandre had echoed. He would mourn Rickon but he couldn’t afford to indulge it. The slaughter would not end with their victory today. Death still marched on towards the Wall. He summoned a vision of the Night King’s taunt back at Hardhome. A reckoning was due and that provocation fueled him as much as anything could.

“Jon Snow, you needn’t fall asleep in the bath. You have a proper bed for that,” Melisandre teased, her hands scrunching water from fistfuls of his hair.

The priestess had gathered a few of the men to bring the tub to him, the steam rising from the bathwater beckoning him once he’d awakened. He had slept briefly after their lovemaking, crawling into the bed with the weight of his exhaustion pressing him down. It unnerved him at first, that his men had seen him here with her, would have wondered at the red woman’s presence, but the bath was a balm to his aches, both physically and otherwise.

Jon opened one eye and looked at the disheveled bed in his brother’s chambers. He saw himself suddenly, there at the head of the bed, leaning down to kiss his little brother’s forehead as he said his goodbyes, Catelyn at Bran’s feet as she wove her talisman, staring at Jon with such hatred it had taken his breath away. He sat up sharply with a splash as the memory took shape.

“This is Bran’s room,” he stated with recognition.

“So it is,” the red woman agreed behind him.

He turned his body in the narrow length of the tub to look at her. “You said you were speaking to him. What did you mean? Is Bran alive?” Hope burst in his heart.

“Your last remaining brother is reborn, Jon Snow. He is this world’s history incarnate. He breathes life, yes, but sees far and wide with a thousand eyes.”

“I don’t understand you,” Jon said in annoyance with a shake of his head. “Is he alive or not? Can I find him?”

“His journey has only just begun, my prince, and only he will know its end. Though he has lost much along the way, he will be stripped of much more. It is not for me to say whether you will see him again. But he is no longer your brother. He is something else now.”

“Of course he’s my brother,” he insisted, her pronouncements angering him. “What else would he be?” He turned back around, the bath no longer comforting. “And what of Arya,” he asked roughly. “Are you able to see her in your visions?”

“The flames bring me no one but you, my prince.”

“Stop calling me that,” Jon grumbled, although with less heat than before their coupling. Melisandre had regained confidence in her faith, it seemed, with her doubts all but vanished. A wet nose nudged his fingers before a rough tongue licked across them and Jon instinctively put out a hand to stroke Ghost’s fur, smiling at his companion’s attempt to soothe his master’s change in temperament. The direwolf must have arrived in Bran’s chambers at a point before Jon had fallen into slumber. Jon had felt the beast nearby as he’d fucked Melisandre with fury, Ghost’s wildness landing in him, driving him harder. But he wondered how the wolf had made his way into the room and he glanced at the door to check that it was closed shut. “Ghost,” he said softly. “To bed with you.” The animal turned to move back to its spot on the hearth.

Jon heard the priestess squeezing the water from a cloth then felt her rub it along the back of his neck, sliding it down the furrow of his back as he gripped the sides of the tub. “You _are_ Azor Ahai come again, Jon Snow,” she intoned. “It is prophesied. You will lead your people through the long night.”

The cloth came back over his shoulder and descended, slowly scrubbing across his chest in circular motions. Jon took hold of her wrist gently, pulling the cloth free from her hand. It was unsettling to have her lay such claims on his shoulders. He was far from being anyone’s savior, nor was he interested in the role.

“I can wash myself, my lady.” Once again, he thought of his body lifeless on a table, how her hands must have cleansed him to prepare him for whatever her god had filled him with. Fingers crept up his neck and slid back into his hair yet he was loath to shake her free, his eyes closing in pleasure. Jon was tired enough to sleep for days but there was still a low fire in his belly, an abiding need to be touched. He’d had so little of it in his life. It had never bothered him until he’d met Ygritte. She had looked for any excuse to touch him and he had grown used to it quickly. And after he’d betrayed her – to go months without that touch had been hard for him, which had only added to his guilt. And now, with Sansa, she so ready to throw her arms around him when she could – it had been another adjustment. When Melisandre had made her advances before, he’d only just burned his lover’s body and he still grieved for her, the seduction feeling craven and wrong. Yet this time his grief sought solace in the flesh; that he didn’t immediately feel shamed by it was something new for him to process. The priestess’s hands stroked down the length of his back, disappearing into the water as they continued to where he was seated, and Jon instinctively arched away from her when her touch grew bolder.

“Come. Back to bed with you, Jon Snow. The water grows cold. I can sense you are restless, still. What weighs on your mind?”

 **“** What weighs on my mind? Other than my slain brother, my remaining siblings’ fates, and the oncoming army of the dead, you mean?” he said, tone biting. “Aye, I may have a few trifling concerns.” He sighed heavily, fingers rubbing his eyelids closed as he considered what truly disturbed him. Perhaps the priestess would know something useful. There was an ageless quality to her that drew him. Her messages were often confounding but always carried an ancient wisdom that made her old beyond her years. “My sister, for one. I would be keen to know why she lied to me. I lost many men today. How many deaths could have been avoided had I known another army was on its way?” _And how many lives were saved? Including yours?_ The voice questioned.

“Lady Stark has been through many trials herself, Jon Snow. Pain creates fear. And fear can make a woman distrustful of men once her body understands their thirst for violence. Kin or no. What would you have done had she told you?” she asked. Nimble fingers now rubbed oil through his hair, the scent of cloves rising in his nose.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I want her to trust me. I will never allow any harm to come to her, she must know that. I’ve promised her as much.”

“Promises are only good for the living, Jon Snow. You cannot protect her if you die on the battlefield.” Her voice held a tender accusation and Jon winced at his own dishonesty.

He’d felt doomed from the moment Sansa had taken his hand back at Castle Black and exhorted him to help her save their brother. A naked manipulation which nonetheless had worked. _We’ll never get Rickon back,_ she’d claimed only a night ago _._ Recalling the conviction in her face only upset him again, her words portending his failure. Yet he’d known in his depths that with every rejection they’d received from one of their father’s lords, a longing had begun to spread into his heart, telling him that it would all be over for him soon.

“And if I had, what would you have done, my lady? Laid your hands on me again and brought me back from nothing? Like the Night King himself? How many times before I become like the Others? Mindless meat to be raised for killing until I’ve served whatever purpose your god has for me.” The thought terrified him. At least in nothing there was peace. And rest. He already felt the charlatan, walking around in a familiar skin pretending that he was the same man when he couldn’t even trust the thoughts that filled his head to be his own. _Is it really you in there?_

Jon felt her breath ghost over the shell of his ear as Melisandre leaned in closer, lips brushing the skin of his neck sending a creeping chill down his back. “You are not mindless meat, Jon Snow. The Lord of Light has chosen you.” Her hand stroked downwards over the carvings on his belly, his body tensing with the violent memory they recalled. “I will lay my hands on you whenever and _whereve_ r you require it,” she murmured as she reached lower and took him in hand. Jon grabbed hold of her wrist again, but did not pull her away this time, only held her fast to him as he stiffened in her grip.

“What would you have me do?” he rasped, the water long cold but his flesh on fire, burning the ice away in the depthless holes of his stomach as his hunger returned.

“I would have you rise, my king. No more questions tonight. Come back to bed.”

“And now I’ve gone from a prince to a king. To what do I owe this promotion in title?” he said dully, the joke hollow as he looked to her standing before him with her hand held out in waiting. A glimpse of her thigh and the lingering feel of her touch around the hard length of him reminded him that he was a liar, too. He wanted to be inside her again, wanted to slide into nothingness as the world fell away and he could let his body take over, no thought at all, just flesh grinding against flesh. Jon rose from the bath and took her hand, stepping out of the tub with pale skin no longer coated in the blood and stench of death. The priestess kneeled before him, her face turned upwards in obeisance but her smile crooked with wickedness as slender fingers curled around his cock once more.

“I am here to serve you, Jon Snow. Let me show you what pleasure can do for the soul.”

Jon’s breath quickened as she bent her head towards him, her mouth a ruby wreath as she prepared to take him that way. “Wait,” he said gruffly, his voice urgent and raw. She glanced up at him, an eyebrow raised in question. “Put out the candles first,” he begged.

He belonged in the dark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Posting this a bit early, but what the hell. Just going to point out that the tags are for transparency's sake. I don't want anyone surprised about where this is heading. I do plan on continuing on with a post-show story, however. 
> 
> Some of the dialogue herein is directly lifted from the show, credit to the writers, you know who they are. Not mine.

**ii.**

“Lady Stark.”

Sansa was running through the castle, the hounds behind her baying and snarling. They were starving. Ramsay hadn’t been enough.

“Lady Stark!”

Someone was shaking her arm and Sansa bolted awake, the dogs’ barking seeping from her dream as light filled her vision. She pulled her furs instinctively around her shoulders as her eyes darted about her surroundings where she was curled upon the floor. Slumped down by the windows overlooking the northern side of the castle grounds, Sansa could suddenly feel every ache in her body from such an awkward position on the stones. She could see the godswood from here, snow coming down softly through the window.

“Lady Stark! Apologies, my lady. You were shouting. I thought you were in need of aid.”

She glanced up at the guard who had jostled her, his face in distress.

“It’s all right,” she assured him. “I must have fallen asleep.” She attempted to stand and the guard put out his hand to help her rise up on wobbly legs. Sansa wiped at her face with gloved hands. “Did you say I was shouting?” she asked, suddenly anxious. It was quiet in the corridor, no hounds were after her.

“You were yelling for the Commander, your brother,” the guard explained. “You sounded upset.” His eyes were wide and worried, as though he feared offending her.

“I’m sorry, I took you away from your post,” she said tiredly. “I’m fine. You may take your leave of me.” He still appeared unsure, and Sansa remembered the reason she’d been roaming the halls in the first place. “My brother. Where is he now?”

******

Down the hallways she raced again, sleep still fraying her sight. Jon had been reported going down to the Great Hall with the red woman by his side, the guard had told her. There were thousands to feed, a hundred soldiers still convalescing ready to break their fast, servants to soothe and instruct. It would be a busy morning. They’d sent ravens last night to all of the Northern houses, a summons to Winterfell in light of the Stark victory and return to their ancestral seat. The lords and their entourages would be arriving by the end of the week and there was much to do in preparation.

Sansa held a momentary image of her brother and the priestess, their naked bodies entwined conjured brightly into her mind. She winced as she recalled her shame standing there gawking at them. But she was no longer some innocent child easily shocked by fornicating adults. Ramsay and Joffrey had seen to that. No, this was normal behavior that men and women engaged in, she reminded herself, and Jon was no different. Her brother’s nightly activities were not what troubled her, however, so much as their implications. What was he thinking to choose her? The woman couldn’t be trusted. Would she ensnare him to do her god’s bidding? Sansa knew little of the lord of Light and its followers, but she understood its power, as all religion held its sway over men. And she knew also that the gods, whether they be old or of the Seven, had never answered any of her prayers. She was as distrustful of them as she was of everyone else.

_What about Jon? They sent you Jon._

Yes, she should thank the gods for her brother – her bastard brother – who had fought bravely for her no matter the odds. The Vale army had arrived in time to save them from defeat, but would Littlefinger’s offering of some two thousand men have conquered Ramsay on their own if it had all fallen to her? Lord Yohn Royce was as honourable a man as both Jon and her father. He never would have attempted to save Rickon, would have offered a perfunctory apology perhaps before cutting their losses, but would Ramsay have bested him in other ways? The men who fought for Jon had been fearsome on the field, even though they were outnumbered, and the men who came for _her_ helped finish the job. It was only the two armies together – along with a giant – that they had managed to take back Winterfell from Ramsay and the Karstarks. Jon had to understand this. She would never willfully betray him.

 _A time may come when you need an army loyal to you._ “I have an army _,”_ she’d told Littlefinger, relishing that powerful moment of independence. _Your brother’s army?_ It had been only too easy for him to insert that doubt within her.

Gods, and she would have to talk with Littlefinger soon to discuss the future of House Stark. How she would go about introducing the man to Jon was an event she didn’t want to contemplate just yet. Jon would bristle at Baelish’s attempts at flattery, would not be able to hide his contempt and would speak his mind plainly on matters of urgency. It might be best to keep them apart.

When she arrived in the Great Hall again, expecting to find as much of a melee as the night before, the difference was quite startling. Gone were the wounded, and gone was the infirmary-setting. It was just as it had always been, righted to the way their family had maintained it, rather than the Boltons’ sorry attempt at refinement. The floors were now spotless, the tables cleared and ready for the men who were like to come through for morning nourishment. Maester Wolkan stood in the room with the cook, giving a counting of heads. The cook was a docile enough fellow, but he was no Gage. Sansa shuddered when she recalled what had happened to him under the Boltons. She’d never taste a finer lemon cake again. Wolkan glanced up at her with a surprised smile as she strode towards him.

“Lady Sansa, how are you this morning? Plenty rested, I hope?”

“I don’t suppose I’ll find much rest until I’m assured that Winterfell is back in its proper order under Stark rule, Maester Wolkan,” she said. “We have lots to keep us occupied. I expect the Northern lords will be sending a flurry of ravens to us soon enough.”

“They’ve already begun, my lady. We’ve received a few replies this morning from Lords Cerwyn and Glover, and we expect to see them arrive in the next few days. The Guest house will be fully prepared before then, on your order.” He smiled again. “Oh, and we received a white raven this morning. A confirmation from the Citadel, my lady, that winter is upon us.”

“Thank you, Maester Wolkan. I may need your help in the next hour or two. Right now I need to find Jon.”

The maester’s face darkened. “Oh, yes,” he said with some trepidation. “I believe he went for a …stroll, he said, up on the battlements. He mentioned needing to clear his head.”

Sansa’s frustration leapt to her face, her teeth grinding against each other with the news. Seven hells, was this going to be a repeat of the night before? “A stroll,” she said flatly, the beginnings of a headache blooming behind her eyes. “Fine.” She left the hall once more.

But it was on her way to the upper stairwell that she came across the Onion Knight, who looked more troubled than she’d seen him on the eve of the battle. The man had clearly been weeping and his anguish fluttered about him like wings, his hands gripped around a small wooden carving.

“Ser Davos,” she called as he stopped to turn her way. “Are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine, my lady. Thank you for asking.” He looked off to the overcast sky for a moment before turning back with a shrug of his shoulders. “It’s been a rough morning.”

“Is there anything I can do?” At the renewed look of distress in his expression, she pressed further. “Please, Ser Davos, you must tell me how I can help. What’s happened?” Fear caught in her heart that it might have involved Jon.

“It’s over now,” Davos said gravely. “Jon sent her away. And I _will_ end her if she ever sets foot in the North again. That I can promise.”

“Are you referring to the Red woman? The Lady Melisandre?” she asked, that fear evolving rapidly to a fervent hope.

“The one and same,” he confirmed. “She’s been banished. For her crimes.”

“ _What_ crimes?”

******

When Sansa arrived at the top of the tower, she saw the back of her brother again, standing there between the merlons while staring out across the snow. He wore the cloak that she’d made for him and there was a little lift of pride at the sight. It quickly faded as she thought of Littlefinger again. Sansa worried her lip, wondering what she could possibly say to explain her actions that didn’t declare a complete lack of faith in her brother’s command. For a brief second, she was afraid to go any further, considered running back down the stairs to face Jon after dinner. But she quickly put aside the thought – this was Jon, not her departed husband – and walked out towards the parapet ready to ask for forgiveness.

He heard her and shot her a quick glance before returning to stare out at the figure in the distance. Sansa could make out the red woman atop her horse, heading off to the King’s Road judging by her direction south. Sansa glanced at Jon to gauge his reaction, to catch whether he was even the slightest bit sad to see her go, but it was hard to tell with her brother. Davos had told her what the witch had done, of course, and it had been terrible and repugnant, yet Sansa couldn’t help feeling some satisfaction that she’d been right, that the woman was as dangerous as she’d intuited. As soon as the Onion Knight had shared the extent of her crimes, Sansa had asked Davos if Jon had known, feeling horrible the moment she said it. Of course Jon would never lay with a woman who burned children alive if he had any knowledge of it. To think otherwise was mad. Yet the seed of doubt remained. She rarely knew what went on in her brother’s mind, most of the time. He said so little. And burnings or no, she was happy to see the priestess gone not merely because the woman deserved to be banished, but more importantly, would no longer be around her brother. Sansa needed Jon’s attention on Winterfell’s forces and the Lady Melisandre would have been a distraction.

“I’m having the Lord’s chambers prepared for you,” he said suddenly and Sansa gaped at him in surprise.

“Mother and father’s room?” She felt a pang of guilt at the gesture. “You should take it.” The words flew from her mouth without a thought, but it felt right. Jon had been their leader and had led them back home. Father would have approved.

“I’m not a Stark,” he reminded her with his sad smile. Sansa felt a sudden rush of tenderness towards him.

“You are to me,” she said. And she meant it. Sansa needed him here with her, he was her family. She wouldn’t let him forget that.

* * *

Jon listened to his sister with only half of his thoughts on their conversation. He listened to her pale apology for not informing him of her arrangements to bring another army to their fight, but he had no energy left to admonish her, nor reproach her for the compromise she’d put them in with someone as cunning as Baelish. He let Sansa have her glory with the truth. Her actions had saved the battle, and whether her decision to leave him out of her plans was deceitful or not seemed to matter no longer. It was done. Meanwhile, here he stood, a bastard raised from death by a god who demanded the sacrifice of children. Jon had no right to glory. He had no right to anything. He felt ill as he stood on the battlements watching the Lady Melisandre ride away, had been feeling progressively sicker since hearing Davos’s accusations. He envisioned the scarred but sweet face of the princess Shireen as Davos raged and tried to imagine for a moment the child’s terror, her unbearable pain as her flesh burned. And the woman responsible for it – he’d bedded her thrice the night before. What sort of vile creature did that make him? He wouldn’t soon forget the priestess’s breezy righteousness when she had set fire to the wood underneath Mance Rayder’s feet, how she had taken pleasure in it. Jon was beginning to feel damned with every action he took.

They were surrounded by men concerned only with their own interests. He didn’t even know if he could trust his own sister. Yet, he had to try. He thought briefly of the red woman’s words about Sansa before squeezing his eyes shut to the vision of her moving underneath him, that red hair so vivid and reminding him of another. Jon had sent the priestess away, had not been able to carry out her execution. But to get her out of his mind after all that she’d done would be harder still. The ghosts continued their assault on him but he needed to think of the living now. He stepped to his sister to kiss her forehead before parting, doing his best to be the big brother he’d never been to her when they were younger.

“We need to trust each other,” he said as he held her cheek. “We can’t fight a war amongst ourselves, we have so many enemies now _.”_ Sansa needed to be with him. Jon didn’t want to fight with her anymore. He turned to leave.

“Jon,” Sansa called out before he had taken a handful of steps. He looked back to her. “A raven came from the Citadel. A _white_ raven. Winter is here.”

It came unbidden, but Jon grinned at his sister, the absurdity of her announcement inspiring in him a surging fondness. How many times had he heard his father intone their house words? A thousand? More? And always so grave when he said it. As grave as Sansa’s expression now. To hear it heralded by the maesters as if it should be news at all left him marveling at the rest of the world’s ignorance. Winter had been with him for some time. The storm was coming, but at least they were home.

“Well, Father always said,” he replied, his smile widening. Sansa gave a hint of one back. There would be a mountain of work to do to prepare for the army on its way: an army of dead men, and dead children. But it was nice to share this moment with her. Jon left his sister to make his way down to the forge. He had plans for the blacksmith, their work could begin.

******

It wasn’t until supper that Jon saw Sansa again.

They met in the Great Hall, Jon instinctively heading towards one of the trestle tables before realizing he could sit at the family table in front of the great hearth. Sansa was waiting for him, with Davos to her left talking to her in a low rumble. Jon scanned his eyes over the rest of the hall, noted where Lord Royce sat with some of his lieutenants, but Baelish was conspicuously absent. It bothered him having the man around his sister, regardless of her assurances that she had him at arm’s length. As he came up to his father’s chair, Sansa looked up to him and smiled widely, her cheer infectious, and Jon felt that tenderness return as he sat next to her, feeling strangely welcomed to a family tradition. She took hold of his hand under the table and squeezed it encouragingly. Jon squeezed back but kept silent. Meanwhile, the servants brought out dish after dish. It was odd to see so many unfamiliar faces. To be here in Winterfell and not run into Maester Luwin, or Ser Rodrik, or Mikken, made it feel like a different place in many respects. He would have to learn the rhythms of the castle from scratch.

“Ser Davos and I were just saying that you should give a little speech to the men and women assembled,” Sansa began. “We have a day or two to wait before all the lords have arrived, weather willing, but Lord Cerwyn should be here by morning and Glover not far after.”

Jon was not keen on the suggestion with his current frame of mind. “Everyone is exhausted. Let them eat and replenish their strength. I don’t need to say anything. I’ll speak before the assembly once they’re all here.” He glanced over at a table where little Lady Mormont sat chatting with her advisors. “Besides, I rather doubt I’m the best speaker here.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Sansa returned. “You’re our commander. The men who follow you respect you. They want to know what lies ahead.”

“Sansa,” he grumbled. It had been a difficult morning. “Let me just eat something, please.” He hadn’t had proper food for two days. While not quite famished, he supposed he needed some kind of sustenance before his body collapsed. Sleep had been lacking.

“Jon. Where did you disappear to last night?” Ser Davos asked. “We were trying to find you. Did you return to your old rooms?” Jon felt his face heat up as memories of the night before pervaded his thoughts once again. “I’ll have someone bring up your things if you’ll tell me where they should go.”

“Jon isn’t going back to his childhood room,” Sansa stated decisively. “He needs someplace … grander.” Her tone instantly shamed him, the implication bringing back old embarrassments, but he let go of it just as quickly. He hadn’t thought about the size of that room in years and had no plans to seek it out. She turned to him with the forming of a smile. “Why don’t you take the bedchambers of the recently deceased Lord Bolton. It seems fitting. It was Robb’s before then. You can cleanse it with your presence, Ned Stark’s son returned to his proper place.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Besides, you spent more time in there as boys then you did anywhere else in the castle, save the courtyard.”

Jon considered the poetic irony of him taking his brother’s chambers after they were defiled by a bastard, but nodded to her. Robb had been a king. Jon didn’t measure up, but he needed somewhere to sleep. Bran’s room was definitely no longer an option.

“Well, then, I’ll go see to it. Jon needs a good solid night of rest, as much as any of us.” Davos stood up and clapped him on the back before giving Sansa a curt nod. “My lady. Lord Commander.” He left them at the head of the table and made his way to the doors.

“I wish he’d stop that,” Jon grumbled again as a steaming bowl of soup with meat and potato was put before him. He grabbed a spoon and took a first slurp of the broth. He felt so cold all of the time now. It was good to get some heat into him, if only for a short while.

“But he’s right. You’re the commander of our forces. You should be addressed as such.”

He shrugged as he took another slurp of his dinner. Was he? He didn’t imagine Littlefinger or Lord Royce would follow orders from him. Should anyone? Jon recalled what he’d told Sansa back in the Gift, after they’d spoken to the last of the Freefolk leaders. Ser Davos was the reason that he was standing here today. It created a host of complicated emotions within Jon; grateful on the one hand, but also bitter that he’d been embroiled in such nefarious magic. He didn’t blame Davos for doing what he thought was right, but it was still a hard burden to bear, to feel his current life was owing to the whims of an evil god. _We are standing here because of him. Jon Snow is alive because the Lord willed it._ Jon looked at his stew with renewed disgust and put down his spoon, grabbing his tankard to drink some ale instead.

“You’re quiet tonight,” Sansa prompted.

“Aye,” he said.

“Are you still angry with me?”

The question only saddened him further and Jon turned in his seat to look Sansa in the eyes. “Of course not. I was never angry at you.”

“You seemed pretty angry,” she insisted, “when you were yelling at me before the battle.”

“That wasn’t –” he began heatedly, his frustration from that night returning in a flash. He tamped it down quickly. “That was simply a disagreement, Sansa. I was a little tense. Right now, I’m just …tired.” He sighed as he looked across the guests at their tables and wiped a hand over his eyes. “I didn’t sleep much last night.”

“And why is that?” Sansa’s tone was sharp enough that his head shot up, and he glanced back at her, noting her critical expression.

“It’s difficult to explain,” he started, trying to describe the feeling to a civilian. “When you’re in battle …” he struggled for the words, “When you’re in battle, the blood grows hot, the killing, all of that killing…. It becomes … you become this … it’s just not easy to come down from that,” he finished weakly.

“I think I understand what you mean,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep last night, either. It’s quite stimulating.”

Jon didn’t comment on her activities, but it was clear from her comment that Sansa had seen to Ramsay’s end. His men had informed him as much. Jon couldn’t decide if he felt a perverse pride in it or was simply resigned to the continued dismantling of his sister’s innocence.

He attempted another sip of his soup, but could barely get it past his lips, the lumps of meat taunting him as his appetite officially disappeared. Jon grabbed his ale for another swig as he heard his stomach gurgle.

“You should eat,” Sansa remarked. “You’re getting too thin.”

“I’m fine,” he insisted, his gaze sweeping across the denizens of the hall again as the din of conversation increased. There was a sudden lurch in his heart for the past. He imagined Robb in his place, how he must have sounded rousing his bannermen to arms after their father had been killed.

“I was thinking of Robb last night,” he said suddenly, skewering a potato with his fork and ferrying it around the bowl for Sansa’s benefit. “You know, when Lord Commander Mormont gave me the letter, told me Father had been executed, I felt that I needed to be here, oath be damned. So I left, in the middle of the night, ready to desert the Night’s Watch so I could join Robb and his army heading south, knowing they’d most surely take my head once they caught up with me. I wanted to fight with him, for him, to help the Starks see to their vengeance for our father. But my friends – my Night’s Watch brothers – they came and found me. Chased me down until I stopped and listened to them. And they convinced me to go back. To stay true to my vows and see them as a strength. I sometimes wonder what might have happened had they never followed me.”

“You’d be a lot shorter,” his sister quipped. “What with missing a head and all.”

He smirked, in spite of his dour mood. “Aye. I suppose I would. Probably an improvement.” His smile dimmed when he thought of Robb’s tragic end. He’d heard the stories.

“I’m happy they talked you into staying,” she said. “It was horrible enough seeing Father lose his head. I fainted when it happened, of course, so at least I didn’t have to listen to the crowd cheering when Ilyn Payne held it up. But it was worse the next morning.”

Jon sat up straighter, his flesh stippling with the chill that ran up his back and across his arms, suddenly reminded that of course Sansa would have been there, would have had to bear witness. He’d worried back then what would befall his sisters with their father dead, but he’d never considered that Sansa had watched it all from up on the dais. “What do you mean? What happened in the morning?”

“Joffrey made me look at it,” she said grimly, resting her knife and fork on her plate as she stared at her food. “Made me look at father’s head on a pike over the walls of the castle. They were all up there, all of our servants. Even Septa Mordane. How she used to annoy me so, but then, there was her head, her face blackened. And Joffrey gloating, grinning like the odious little monster he was. How I had wanted to push him off the catwalk, to see his brains dashed on the stones when he fell. But instead, I just stood there. And then Joffrey had Ser Meryn hit me.”

“What?” Jon gaped back in shock. “Why?”

“Because I told him that Robb would bring me _his_ head. He said that a king should never strike his lady, so he always had Ser Meryn do it for him. Often, and with relish.”

Jon took hold of Sansa’s wrist and held it tight. “I’m so sorry,” he told her, emotion rising in his voice. “I’m sorry you had to experience that. I hate that you saw Father that way; that you were put through such horrors. But it’s in the past now. Joffrey can’t hurt you for his amusement any longer.”

“No, he can’t. And now, neither can Ramsay.” Sansa picked up her fork and speared a carrot, popping it into her mouth with a crunch. She reached over his plate and took hold of his cup of ale, drinking deeply with several gulps before returning it back to its place with a lazy smile. “I don’t want you getting drunk tonight,” she said to him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand as he sat there bewildered.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he replied softly, concerned by his sister’s demeanor. She attacked her dinner with gusto, grabbing a hunk of bread to sop up the gravy on her plate as she ate. Jon leaned back against his chair and watched her, his brow furrowed deeply as he considered Sansa’s mental state. He didn’t think her fragile at all, not after what she’d done, but she was young still, and Jon had an inherent urge to protect her, even if it was from herself. She’d had every right to kill her rapist, but it bothered Jon to think she’d enjoyed it. Especially in the face of their loss. Sansa hadn’t even been down to the crypts yet to give Rickon a proper goodbye. He would need to watch her carefully over the coming weeks.

When she reached for his ale again, Jon handed it to her and let her finish it. She apparently had grown a taste for the drink since their reunion at Castle Black. Jon thought about those first few days with her, how they had been eager to share old stories, ones that had been reshaped to cast a familiarity between them that hadn’t been there back when they were children, and Jon had let her have that, too. _I was awful, just admit it._ She had given him a plain account of what she and Theon had escaped, but spared him the details, for which he was grateful. Having his sister there had kept him grounded, kept him from fleeing the site of his murder while everything in his body screamed for him to go, that he was a fool to stay. Not knowing which of his Nights Watch brethren had secretly agreed with his traitors left him constantly anxious, to the point that he was actually relieved to have a reason to go on their tour of the north, to help Sansa find support for their army. He’d allowed himself to believe that it was his sister who had convinced him to fight to save Rickon, but he could see now that he’d known her true desire all along. Perhaps a part of him had wanted his home back, too. Jon remembered the last time he had held his youngest sibling in his arms, bidding him farewell, how small and wriggly he was, eager to run off to follow his direwolf. What had he called the pup?

“What did Rickon call his direwolf again?” he asked Sansa aloud, an image sprung in his mind of its head thrown on the ground before them, a black hook embedded in its skull.

“It was Shaggydog,” she said, taking a last bite of her bread. Her nose wrinkled as she appeared to be in thought, resuming the list once she’d swallowed. “It was Nymeria for Arya’s, and for Bran’s, it was … it was,” she gave him a look. “I can’t remember. Can you?”

Jon shook his head, although he could see the animal on Bran’s bed guarding him as his brother slept deeply, still not awakened from his fall. He cast a glance to the windows, sensing Ghost outside on his hunt. “I told you that my friend, Sam, saw Bran. Let him go north to the other side of the Wall through its tunnels. He might still be out there. He had Hodor and his direwolf with him.”

But Sansa didn’t appear to be interested in their last surviving brother, her thoughts still on the wolves’ names. “Robb’s was Greywind. That one had beautiful coloring in his coat. I think he was the biggest of them all. Well,” she looked to the window as well. “Perhaps not as big as Ghost. We’ll never know now, will we? How big he would have got. Joffrey could hardly wait to tell me about Robb, too. How they’d sewn Greywind’s head on –”

“All right,” Jon said to stop her, patting the back of her hand where it rested on the table. “It’s alright,” he repeated, trying to calm her bloodlust. “We don’t have to talk about it.”

Sansa gave him a shrewd look. “You know what they did to him, right? What those awful Freys did to his corpse? What they did to my mother?”

“Aye, the stories of that night spread even to the Wall.” Ser Alliser had so cherished telling him. “I don’t need to hear it again.”

“Well, someone took care of that infernal family, from what Lady Brienne has said. We weren’t the only ones who despised them, it appears.”

“Lady Brienne?”

Sansa looked out amongst the tables and then pointed out the warrior to him, where she sat with her squire several rows down. “She arrived from Riverrun this afternoon. It seems my useless Uncle Edmure has sided with the Lannisters to end the siege. The Blackfish perished in the fight. And word from the Twins is that the entire lot was poisoned. All but the women are dead. Good riddance, I say.”

“All of the men?” Jon echoed in dismay. That was a lot of people. Walder Frey had sired a legion of progeny. There was something distasteful in it that reminded him of Craster and his daughters. But the news of the shift in who commanded the Tully forces was cause for concern. Jon had only met Lady Catelyn’s brother once, but he had not been impressed.

“I hope to meet them one day and give my thanks,” Sansa said. “Whoever he or she is.”

“You think it was one man?” Surely it had involved several conspirators. The Freys had always had allies but no true friends. They were the relatives you endured, never enjoyed.

“Well, there are conflicting stories, of course, but it seems likely, if only in the manner it was carried out. Someone told me once that poison was a woman’s weapon.”

Jon slid a glance sideways towards his sister, his suspicion piqued. He could guess on one finger who might have educated Sansa on such a notion. “If the court ruling is to be believed, Tyrion poisoned his nephew, so its use is hardly relegated to one’s sex. Besides, I doubt such a mass killing of Freys was carried out by a woman.”

Sansa studied him critically again, making him feel the fool. “Tyrion didn’t kill Joffrey,” she said matter-of-factly. “Only an idiot would believe the court’s ruling. And why don’t you think a woman could be responsible? You’ve read the news from Kings Landing. Cersei took out most of her enemies in one masterful stroke. I expect we’ll be hearing from her soon enough. Her coronation is in a fortnight.”

“We don’t know it was Cersei,” Jon offered feebly. They knew only that an explosion had destroyed the Sept of Baelor, killing everyone inside. King Tommen was dead, his suicide a shock to the kingdom.

“Of course we do,” Sansa said. “You don’t know her but I do. Trust me. She’ll do anything to gain power and rid herself of her enemies.”

Sansa’s words unsettled him as he saw the Vale army appear on the field again to a trumpeting of horns, and he stood up abruptly, itching to walk out his discomfort. “I have some things I need to attend to,” he told her in haste. “I’ll come say goodnight before you’re off to bed, to make sure your chambers are comfortable.” He smiled at her as best he could and nodded, turning quickly to leave.

“But Jon, wait!” she called after him. “You barely ate anything.”

“I’m fine,” he said over his shoulder, continuing on his path to the outside. He would be fine. He just needed a walk to calm his mood.

* * *

Sansa sat up with a start.

Her eyes darted around the room, trying to discern shapes in the shadows, the low embers casting their glow from the fireplace giving her the only light. She couldn’t place where she was at first, but this wasn’t her chambers. The hounds were barking, their growls merging with the screams and ripping sounds awash in her ears. Sansa scanned the room for anything familiar and then she saw it. She glanced to the window, the diamond etchings in the glass bringing back sharp memories of her sitting at her mother’s table while she brushed Sansa’s hair, singing softly. It was still there, she could make it out. As her eyes became accustomed to the dark, she could see her things clearly – her dress over a chair, her sewing heaped on top of her chest, her mother’s armoire with its beautiful carving of the godswood on the front of the doors. She was home, but she wasn’t back there. Ramsay would not be coming to visit her in the night. Not ever again. She had seen to that. So why couldn’t she sleep?

There was a scratch at her door. Sansa twisted her head to listen and a second later the scratching came again, followed by a thump on the other side of the wood. She got out of bed instantly and wandered over. The hounds were in the kennels; Ramsay was a pile of bones, picked clean. It was likely Ghost trying to get in. She opened the door and the wolf was waiting for her, his head almost at the level of her chest. Red eyes watched her with an inquisitive nature, but then he looked off to the hallway. Ghost turned back to her once before striding off towards the end of the corridor with an easy gait. Sansa hesitated for a moment. The priestess was gone. She hoped there would be no more surprises with her brother. She went back into her room to collect her robe and wrapped it around her, moving quickly to follow the direwolf as it waited for her a dozen paces away.

She found him by the windows on the east side of the Keep. He stood in his furs again, leaning against the wall while staring out at the grounds. Ghost went right to his master’s side and Jon put out a hand to scratch him behind an ear. Sansa waltzed up behind them on bare feet, but this time Jon startled, whipping his head in her direction once he heard her close. He frowned when he saw her.

“What are you doing up so late?” she said before he could speak. She came up beside him as Ghost traipsed off and looked up at the lightening sky. “It must be near dawn. Have you been up all night?”

“I could ask the same of you,” he countered. “I thought I saw you off to bed. What are you doing out here? Is everything all right?”

Sansa chafed at his tone. He sounded like Father. “I’m not a child, Jon. You don’t need to tuck me in at night.” She raised an eyebrow. “And you’re avoiding my question. How long have you been out here? Have you slept at all?”

He looked towards their land again and sighed. “I’m fine, Sansa. I just … have a lot on my mind. The dead are coming. Sleep can wait.”

“So, does that mean the dead will have to endure your cranky moods, too, when they get here?” she teased. When he turned to her, his expression was dark.

“This is serious, Sansa. We have so much to do to prepare. And still…” He looked off again, shaking his head. “I don’t know that we can … there are so many,” he trailed off.

She worried about him when he was like this. There was so much goodness in Jon. He was one of the few people around her who was decent and kind, when all she’d known for years were the games and wickedness of those in Kings Landing, constantly at the whim of any mercies she could find. And then to go from one horrible situation to another, from her Aunt Lysa’s murderous jealousy, to Ramsay’s vicious savagery – Sansa was done with it and wanted to be in charge of her own life for once, Littlefinger’s fantasies of the two of them be damned. She knew that challenging Jon during their campaign had been a source of tension, and that not telling him about the army of the Vale hadn’t helped matters. But being in their home, with Jon beside her, Sansa felt the tug of companionship, a need to share herself with him, to let her brother know her. She’d spent enough time around him by now to recognize that darkness when it surfaced. She saw him in her mind again, beating Ramsay bloody. He was as dangerous as Ghost, that wildness a weapon she could wield. The knowledge gave Sansa a strange thrill.

She hooked an arm through his and leaned in against him, not missing how Jon’s body stiffened at first before he relaxed into her. “Where should we start? We’ll have all the Northern lords and ladies here at Winterfell in a few days time. We need to convince them that this threat is real, that we need everyone to band together. You know there will be some who will take issue with the Wildlings being here.”

“Why, whoever could you mean?” he said dryly.

They looked to each other and she raised an eyebrow again. “Right, we know Lord Glover is not likely to stay silent.”

“Lord Glover … can go fuck himself,” her brother sighed.

Sansa started to laugh. She’d never heard Jon swear before. He soon joined in and they giggled together for a moment before he went serious again, standing up straighter to face her fully.

“I spoke to the blacksmith. We need more weapons. As many weapons as we can make to arm all of the North. And I mean _all_ the North. Everyone. But what we fight … most of our weapons won’t stop them. I told you we can burn them, but not when they’re swarming over every man, woman, and child. We had dragonglass, but that’s gone and we’ve no idea where to find more. My sword, because it’s Valyrian steel, was able to destroy a White Walker. But how many Valyrian swords are there that we can use, realistically? How many are even left in the North? Not enough. None of it is enough.”

“Where have I heard that before,” she said, smiling wistfully. He didn’t smile back, just sighed again, rubbing his free hand over his face.

“Sometimes, I wish I knew what I was meant to do. Why I’m even here.”

“What do you mean?” Sansa frowned at him. “You’re here for me,” she said with an authority that sprang from deep within her, girding her spine. She knew it was true as soon as she said it and she held his arm tighter. Whatever haunted her brother about the men who betrayed him, whatever he went through before she found him, none of it mattered now. “And I’m here for you. We were meant to find each other. And Arya and Bran will find their way home to us soon enough. We belong together, all of the Starks. Just like Father always said.”

Jon studied her face while she spoke, not looking convinced by her impassioned words, but saying nothing. She tried again.

“When I was brought back here, before I had to marry Ramsay, there was an old woman, one of the servants of the castle, who took me to the room I grew up in, who tried to make me feel I was home. She was loyal to us, to our family, and she told me that all I had to do if I was ever in trouble was to light a candle in the window at the top of the Broken Tower and that there would be help, that the North remembered.” Her voice turned grave. “And then I had my wedding night. And after that… after that, I knew I was in very serious trouble. That Ramsay would never stop the things he did to me at night.” Her voice grew steely as she watched her brother’s eyes widen, his jaw tightening. “I tried several times to get to the tower. And Theon … I tried to use him, too. But he was too broken, like a cowed dog. Ramsay found out, of course. And he brought me to what was left of that woman. After he’d flayed her.” Sansa’s eyes burned as she remembered the grotesquerie of the carcass, the creaking of the rope around the wooden beam as the body swayed in the breeze. “He made sure to let me know that her heart gave out before he was done. I imagine that’s what Ramsay would have deemed a kindness.” Jon’s expression was stormy, his mouth a grim line, yet he let her continue. “But right before he showed me that abomination, he told me something. Something very important.” She grabbed his hand and held it tightly. “He told me that my brother … my bastard brother… had become Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. And suddenly, I had that light in the window. I had someone who would help me, who was there for me. I knew that if I could just get to you, Jon, that I was safe. And that’s all that I wanted at that moment, more than anything. To get to my brother.”

Jon looked away from her then, the light from the moon upon his face, his eyes black and shining brilliantly. “You made it to Castle Black because Lady Brienne saved you from Bolton’s soldiers, you said so yourself. Because Theon helped you escape. I did nothing. I didn’t even know – If I had, I swear to you, Sansa, I would have come for you. But things were… Gods, I’m sorry.” He finally faced her, his voice hoarse. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been a terrible brother.”

Sansa sighed. This hadn’t been her intent. She slapped him on his arm. “I just told you how you helped me. Don’t be a git.”

“Sansa, I don’t know what you want me to say.” He closed his eyes and shrugged, looking as if the weight on his shoulders was dragging him into the earth. “I’m just tired. If I said the wrong thing …”

“Right, you need sleep. At least a few hours of it before the only bit of sun we’re likely to get shows itself. Let me escort you back to your bedchambers and we’ll talk in the morning when you’re coherent.”

“I’m all right, I don’t need to be escorted,” he protested, trying to pull away from her. Sansa scooped an arm under his cape and wrapped it to the other side of his waist, holding him closer so he could lean against her.

“Come on. Let’s go. I’m not taking no for an answer.” She started to walk with him and Ghost was suddenly there, a streaming white behemoth that dashed ahead of them. She was barefoot, but the stones were warm from the springs below. Jon’s body was a small campfire emitting heat to everything near. “Why do you have this on?” She nodded towards his furs.

“I’m cold,” he said. Sansa frowned and put the back of her hand to his forehead. He had no fever but his skin still warmed her. “Sansa,” he rumbled, annoyed again. “I’m fine.”

“Yes, I know, you’ve mentioned it a few hundred times.” Jon finally stepped away from her, separating them, but reached for her hand and held it as they walked. The heat from his body felt alive along the side where she’d held him and she smiled down at her feet, feeling a sudden shyness.

“You never told me why you were up roaming the castle.”

“I had a –” She stopped, remembering her dream. “A visitor. Ghost brought me to you,” she finished. “I think he’s worried about you, too.”

“No one need worry about _me_ ,” Jon insisted again. “Ghost included. It’s what’s coming that we need to be concerned with, if we want to survive.”

“We will,” she said with certainty.

When they arrived at his bedchambers, Sansa felt a hard shudder go through her standing before the door. But then she heard the hounds in her head, heard them baying. Ramsay wasn’t here. Jon gave her a quizzical look, noticing her reaction. “It’s all right. I just … I have to remind myself every now and again that he’s dead.”

“Sansa.” He said her name with such heaviness that Sansa glanced up sharply, expecting to see her father for a moment. Jon held her gaze with eyes full of empathy. “It’s only been a day. Give yourself some time. We should go down to the crypts in the morning. Hold a service for Rickon, before the rest of the lords arrive.”

Her face grew hot. “Oh. I meant … I meant Ramsay, not Rickon.”

“I know,” her brother said, the weight in his words as solid as the stones under her feet. “But we should go to see Rickon. The Boltons are all gone. It’s our brother we need to remember.”

“You’re right, of course. We still have father’s statue to see to. We should commission something for Rickon and Robb, as well. I like the idea of a service. Old Nan will want to be there.”

“Good. Now take Ghost with you. He’ll stay with you tonight, to keep you company.” Jon smiled sadly at her. “Get some sleep, little sister.”

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Little?” she questioned as she peered down at him, her cheek garnering a big grin from her brother. He looked down at his boots with a chuckle and shake of his head. Sansa suddenly reached over to wrap her arms about his neck, a squeeze in her heart. “Goodnight, Jon,” she said, her mouth above his ear. “Sleep well.” She kissed him before pulling away, leaving Jon stunned in front of his door as she followed Ghost down the hall to her parent’s chambers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted a little early. My thanks again to firesign for her enthusiastic notes on the shaping of this chapter.

**iii.**

“I don’t think we should assemble too early. Let them get settled, supper together, catch up with old mates, whatever it is they need to get out of the way, so that you have their full attention once you begin speaking. We’ll need them to act quickly with the plans we want to set in motion. I expect it may take some doing to convince them all. I don’t envy you that argument.”

Davos sat by Jon as they broke their fast, both of them at the head table as knights and lords and soldiers made their way in to find a seat in growing numbers. Jon nibbled on a rasher of bacon, eager to get on with his day. He spread some blackberry jam on the hunk of hot bread on his plate and took a bite, his belly finally demanding to be satiated, and followed it with a gulp of brown ale to help it down. There would be much to do before the banquet the next evening, when all of the Stark bannermen would be present at last. Davos and Sansa both spoke true that a few of them would take some work to be sold on the coming threat. Jon wasn’t exactly nervous, he’d addressed large gatherings before, but he was impatient, the need to get on with things like a babbling brook that rushed through him. Scanning the hall, he looked for Baelish, wondering if the man was somewhere seeking out his sister. She’d kept his name out of their conversations since acknowledging he wasn’t to be trusted but Jon understood now that Sansa kept secrets from him. He was curious about the relationship. The man sold her to men who’d murdered her family, and yet, he seemed to have a strange pull on her. When she had spoken of him at Castle Black, it had only been with derision, and now they were forced to break bread with him. He hoped Sansa knew what she was doing.

Jon thought about their talk in the night, how her story of Ramsay’s sadistic games had upset him. It was not a topic he wanted to dwell on, the reminder that he’d failed his sister only served to drag him into another pit of self loathing. He could no longer afford such battles within himself. He’d had a hard enough time when he’d returned to his bedchambers. Jon had attempted sleep as Sansa had requested, but no sooner had he shut his eyes and the world gone black, that cold took hold of him again deep into his bones. When the dreams began, he’d bolted awake, the whispers in the mouths of dead children coming from all sides. _For the watch_ his room hissed, the shadows in the corners feeling thick and malevolent. On the other side of his window, the sky had looked only marginally brighter, but the stirrings of the castle had yet to begin.

“I’d be careful around the men from the Eyrie,” Davos continued as he looked over the congregation with a nod. “While Lord Royce seems to admire your sister greatly, he has little love for you. I heard him discussing you with a few of the others in the camps.”

“He was extolling the virtues of my leadership, then,” Jon remarked with a sardonic bite, before taking another gulp of ale. He slid a glance to where Royce sat with some of his men, but the man looked quiet this morning, focused on his food. Jon had no time for politics, there was much too much to do. But he also knew he needed to amend his mood. Sansa was right. His short temper would not help their cause.

“Aye, that’s the problem, as he sees it. Who’s leadin’? He thinks you reckless. I’ve yet to hear him call you by name, only refers to you as ‘Lord Eddard’s bastard _’_. But he’ll do as his liege lord commands, I’d wager, so as long as Littlefinger’s declared for House Stark in Lord Arryn’s stead, we’ll be alright. But how far can we trust Littlefinger? Stannis despised him. I think they all need to see that you and the Lady Sansa are together on this, that you’re both in agreement for what comes next.”

Jon sensed his advisor had more to say. “You think this isn’t already apparent?”

Davos quirked his head and considered Jon shrewdly. “Is it? I was there at the war council, Jon. Your sister said nothing about Littlefinger’s forces. Does she not understand that we need to rally all of the north for this fight?” Jon had no answer for him. “She needs to remember that this is about survival, not servitude. During our campaign, her attitude with the Northern lords seemed a bit … harsh. These families have lost sons, their houses decimated. We can’t simply make demands of them and expect the Stark name to do all the work.”

“You forget, Ser Davos. I’m not a Stark,” Jon said, speaking to the remainder of his bacon before dropping it to his plate, no longer interested in finishing it. “And Sansa thinks we don’t - _I don’t_ give her opportunity to speak her mind when we make our plans. As long as she feels she’s being heard, her opinions considered, she’ll give me her support. I’m still the commander of this army, whatever Royce may think of it. But she is the Lady of Winterfell.”

“I don’t recall you ever dismissing anything she’s said before,” Davos said. “When she chose to speak up, that is. We learned of the Blackfish taking back Riverrun because of her.”

Jon sighed. What _did_ Sansa want? “She wants me to consult her,” he said, answering his own thoughts. “I’m used to giving orders on my own. I don’t mean to, but I did discount the insight she tried to give me before the battle. I will admit that. We’re … we’re trying to communicate better,” he offered. He finished off his drink and then stood up. “I have to meet my sister now. We’re going to pay our respects to my brother so I’ll be down in the crypts. Was there anything else?” he asked Davos as he picked up his gloves.

“Aye, if you don’t mind. I just wanted a word on yesterday. Can I join you on your way?”

Jon hesitated a moment, worried that his advisor had discovered something about him and the Lady Melisandre. He coughed, covering his mouth to mask his awkwardness. “You may. What is it?” Davos pointed to the doors and they both began to head for the exit. He waited until they’d left the hall and had walked several paces on their way to the west end of the courtyard before speaking softly.

“What happened with Melisandre … I wanted to thank you for that, for your support. I know I was … emotional, I lost control. I loved that child, I did. Like my own daughter. I don’t doubt that Stannis … allowed it to happen, but he was beguiled by that woman for years. She helped him murder his own brother. Apologies, my lord, for putting it on your shoulders. I’m sure it left you in an awkward position.”

Jon felt his body go rigid and he halted his steps. “What do you mean? Awkward position, how?”

“Well,” and Davos looked sheepish at the question. “She did use her infernal god to raise you, Jon. It must feel strange. To be standing here, but to know such horrible deeds were committed in the name of her Lord of Light.”

It was surprising to hear that Davos had even considered these things that weighed so heavily on Jon’s mind. “Aye,” he acknowledged. “It does. But I don’t know what I can do about it.” He looked ahead of them and sighed again. “I know you wanted me to execute her. But … we may still need her, Davos. You’ve not seen the dead like I have, nor looked into the Night King’s eyes. However he is able to animate them … what Melisandre was able to do … I have no answer for any of that. I only know we need to be able to beat them with whatever means we have at our disposal.”

“Of course,” Davos agreed with a nod of his head. “I understand. I’ve seen Melisandre do things that were out of a dream. A nightmare. I don’t think they required sacrifices, but that’s what her lot will have you believe. They wanted to kill a young boy for having a king’s blood, because they thought it would help them remove the other self-proclaimed kings in the war. Including your half-brother. I let the lad go, and was almost executed for it. They’d already killed Renly with her magic, I saw the creature myself. But then King Robb was murdered at the Red Wedding, then Joffrey, then Balon Greyjoy. Every time, she claimed it was her god’s doing. If all the Lord of Light needed was some leeched blood in a brazier, then why did they think burning a little girl alive was necessary to change their luck?” he asked piteously, tears in his eyes.

Jon felt that streak of ice run through him, his wounds like a gutter to his bones. “I don’t know, Ser Davos,” was all he could say. He patted the man on the shoulder before parting to meet Sansa. They had another brother to say goodbye to.

* * *

It was late, the bustle of the castle finally dying down. Jon lay in the copper tub again, with head leaned back against its edge, his body trying to absorb the heat like a sponge. He let his arms dangle over the sides, his eyes closed as his thoughts dwelled on the upcoming feast for the following evening. He needed them all to hear his warnings, to accept the danger they were in. But how to explain to a corp of bullish and proud Northmen that soon they would be overrun with walking murderous corpses and all prejudices needed to be put aside if they were to survive as a people? No easy feat. And he’d begun to hear from Davos there were low rumblings from those questioning his departure of the Night’s Watch. Tormund would tell any who listened that while Jon was not a god, he was no mortal man, either, that the gods had decided to bring him back to save them all. But most Northmen would not put any stock in the words of a wildling, and fancied it a tall tale. Jon’s reputation was growing with the stories, however, the more outlandish they became. Sansa had told him that young Ned Umber, upon their introduction, had asked her if Jon had really floated on air during the battle as his people had been reporting. Jon found it all quite mortifying.

He’d had to swallow his pride when they’d gone to petition their vassals for help. So many of those lords he’d remembered from celebrations at the castle, where they would have seen him at feasts banished to the other end of the Great Hall, never presented with his half-siblings. He’d stood there with Sansa, the Lady of Winterfell, ready to be her support, but she’d let him take the lead every time. They all knew him as the Bastard of Winterfell and their faces didn’t let him forget that when he and Sansa came calling. Was he really any different to them now? It was common knowledge that he had been Lord Commander, he’d written to all of the houses in the North for more men at the Wall. Even more so, that he’d let the wildlings come south to live in the Gift. But a crow didn’t walk away from his vows and live to tell about it. The mutiny was not a topic that Jon wanted to address. The failure was still too fresh, the betrayal still pulsing with its own heartbeat, the one that had been taken from him. There would be more questions. What was he prepared to tell them?

There was a rapping on his door. Jon didn’t want to move, just wanted to bask in the warmth for another hour. It was likely Davos or a servant, however, and he could use some more hot water for his bath.

“Come in,” he called, eyes still closed. There was a pause before the door opened. He heard someone enter yet remained blissfully inert. “Well, you certainly look comfortable,” he heard his sister’s voice say. Jon jolted upright, water sloshing noisily over the side of the tub. He darted a look behind him, his face burning at the sight of her standing in his room.

“Sansa! I’m in the bath!” he yelled, his shock gaining traction. “What do you want?”

“I came to chat,” she said simply. “We can talk about our plans for tomorrow.” She started walking towards him and Jon balked, pulling his knees up to his chest to preserve his modesty.

“Can we talk about it another time? Tomorrow morning, perhaps? I was trying to … Sansa!” She had pulled a squat stool to the side of the tub to sit down. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

“It’s not as if I’ve never witnessed a man taking a bath before,” she said, alarming Jon. “I have been married twice, you know.”

He was appalled by her attitude. “Sansa, I’m your brother. This is … highly improper. A lady shouldn’t see such things.”

“A lady shouldn’t see her brother in the tub?” she questioned, her tone full of doubt. “I saw Bran and Rickon take baths all the time.”

“ _As children_ ,” he commented acidly. He felt completely vulnerable, having her see him like this. He leaned over his knees and locked his arms about his legs. “I’d really rather we had this conversation when I’m dressed.”

“Don’t be such a baby,” she said, looking about his face in earnest. She placed a hand to the crown of his head and he shrunk back away from her. “You haven’t even washed your hair. You are going to wash your hair, aren’t you?” Before he could answer, she dropped a hand in the water, unsettling Jon further and he opened his mouth to protest. Then she stood up and marched to the door, shaking the drops from her fingers as she went. Jon breathed a sigh of relief, expecting her to leave, but once she opened it, she stood looking back at him. “What’s the name of your boy? The one who’s been helping you in the mornings?”

“Hollis,” he answered reflexively. She began asking one of the guards down the hall for him and Jon was ready to disappear under the water. This was unbearable. Eventually, he heard her talking to someone high pitched, the young boy likely on the other side of the door. “Hollis, tell the Lady Sansa that I’m not to be disturbed,” he called, hoping she’d take the hint.

“Nonsense. Hollis, go fetch me a jug and the soaps from my room. Have Mhaegen show you. And bring some more hot water for the Lord Commander’s bath. Go quickly.”

“Yes, m’ilady,” he heard the boy say before the sound of running steps. Sansa closed the door and came back into his room, walking to the dresser where he kept the ceramic basin for his morning wash with determined steps. He made to protest her presence again, but there was something resolute written across her features, her eyes studiously avoiding the side of the room where his bed sat as she came towards him again.

“Are you going to make me beg? I don’t need you to wash my hair, Sansa. I’ve been doing it since I was a small boy; I think I’ve mastered the practice. Now, allow me some privacy, please.”

She stared at him, her mouth a stitched line as she sat down again, laying the basin on the floor behind his head. “I know you can take care of yourself, Jon. But I want to take care of you, too. You’re all the family I have at the moment. Besides, this is hardly scandalous. I’m just going to wash your hair, not bathe you. I used to wash Arya’s hair all the time.”

Jon dropped his forehead to the tops of his knees with a groan. How was he supposed to get his father’s vassals to listen to him when he couldn’t even get his sister to do so? His missteps with Thorne and his cronies were suddenly vivid to him, that he’d failed to convince them to put aside old enmities for the threat they all faced a ringing toll in his head. Was he setting himself up for another betrayal? He felt Sansa run a hand over the back of his head, tugging on the thread of leather he had binding his hair in a knot, and for a second, he wanted to lean into her touch. But then Melisandre’s hands were on him and his head shot up, twisting to the side to see his sister tie the filament from his hair around her wrist with the use of her teeth. She wore her blue dress with the silver direwolf stitched across the chest, her hair in a braid that hung over a shoulder. She looked up once in the direction of his bed then quickly cast her eyes to the ground as he made another attempt to dissuade her.

“Why must we talk about this now? It’s hardly pressing. We’ve discussed tomorrow plenty already.” They’d done so after their memoriam for Rickon earlier in the day.

A knock came again, halting her response. The door opened, his young steward entering with the items Sansa had requested, a guard behind him carrying a pail of steaming water.

“Anything else, Lady Stark? Lord Snow?” Hollis asked, bright blue eyes darting between them under a mop of black hair. The boy was a nervous thing but Jon had taken a liking to him, his eagerness to do well reminding him of another young boy.

“This will do,” Sansa replied. “You can both be on your way. I’ll take the water.” The two of them left and Sansa turned towards him.

“Gods, please tell me you’re joking,” he said, distress mounting as he watched her lift the pail, standing close to hold it near the top of the tub so she could begin to pour. He wanted to order her out, to insist she leave him be. But Jon had already learned that demanding his half-sister do anything rarely worked in his favor. Yet as the hot water flowed into his tepid bath, he was grateful for the warmth.

“Lean back with your hair over the end so I can wet it,” she instructed with jug in hand, her expression still serious. But Jon would not relent.

“I will dunk my head in the bath, but first you need to turn around. Only then will I submit to this egregious assault on my dignity.”

Sansa rolled her eyes dramatically. “Fine,” she uttered with disgust, turning in her seat until she faced his chamber door. “You’re making such a fuss over nothing.”

“I think the occupant of the bath gets to determine that which constitutes _nothing_ ,” he said. The length of the tub was snug, but Jon slid his seat forward so he could lean all the way back, dropping his head underwater for just a second, before sliding back up again. He let out a spluttered breath, wiping his hands over his eyes to see. Looking blearily towards his sister, he wrapped his arms around his legs again, resting his chin on his knees. “You may begin,” he sanctioned.

“Are you sure you don’t need another ten minutes to whinge about it some more?” Sansa said flatly, before lifting one of the bottles his steward had brought. “How did you ever manage to survive the Wall?” she muttered.

“I didn’t,” he said bluntly, and for a moment, Sansa stilled, eyeing him strangely. Jon turned away to sullenly stare at the end of the tub, listening to the clink of her glass bottles as she poured a strong smelling unguent in her palm and began rubbing her hands together.

“I like this for my hair. It smells of mint,” she said to him before reaching over to coat it in his curls. She grunted and then sat back with a sigh. “Oh for mercy’s sake, Jon, lean back so I can do this properly.”

Jon glared at his sister, clenching his teeth. Once again, he found her attitude disquieting, but gave in to her as he eased his body back. He let his neck rest on the edge, dropping his hands to his lap to cover himself, and Sansa scooted the stool behind him, her hands quick to dive along his roots as she scrubbed the herbal concoction to his scalp. It did smell nice, the release of the aroma tickling his nose as she worked. Jon found it bizarre that he should see two women washing his hair in the same week, but he closed his eyes and let his sister’s fingers swirl around his head, if only to placate her.

“I remember when I got here the first night. I was given the kennelmaster’s daughter to act as my handmaiden. I took a bath and she helped me remove the dye from my hair. It felt so strange to be in the place where I grew up surrounded by people I didn’t know.”

“You dyed your hair?” Jon commented out of curiosity, falling back into a languid acceptance as she drew delicious circles about his scalp. He wouldn’t think of the Lady Melisandre doing the same, how her hands had done other things as well, or how her breasts had fit perfectly in the palms of his hands. He would listen to the drone of Sansa’s voice and think of nothing at all.

“Littlefinger was concerned that I not draw attention to myself as Sansa Stark while we traveled. My hair was known. So I dyed it black and pretended to be his niece.”

“Hmmph,” Jon grunted. He didn’t approve. “I don’t know how you were able to stand it. Being presented to Roose Bolton as a guest. I had to write to him requesting he send men for the Night’s Watch and I could barely stomach even that small task.” And it had been Sam who’d written the letter, Jon merely signing his name.

“It was horrible,” she agreed coolly, her hands now making sweeping motions across the back and sides of his head, her nails scratching into his scalp. “I had to smile and curtsy when inside I was screaming for them all to die. But if I learned anything in King’s Landing, it was how to pretend that even the worst thing in the world was perfectly normal.”

“That sounds like quite an enviable skill,” Jon mumbled, feeling drowsier by the minute. “How does one achieve that?”

“Not so easily,” she said quietly. “And the kennelmaster’s daughter … Myranda. Ramsay’s lover.” Jon’s ears pricked at the mention of Bolton and he opened his eyes to the ceiling as she continued. “She threatened to cut away my limbs last I saw her. So that only the parts of me Ramsay needed to provide him with an heir would still be intact. Hearing the smack of her face against the stones when Theon threw her over the wall was the most satisfying sound I’ve ever heard. Well … until Ramsay’s screams.”

Jon sat up hard and turned to her, his concern tightening to a fist in his chest. She was studying him closely, her face a mask that held no emotion. He reached out to take her hand in his.

“I’m grateful that Theon was able to get you out of there, then. Out of _here_ ,” he corrected. “Away from Bolton.”

“So am I,” she said sadly. “More than you can ever know. Now lean back again, I need to rinse your hair.”

Jon did as she asked without complaint this time, his head teeming with the stories his sister had shared over the last few days since they’d been back in Winterfell. She’d not been this candid with him – or as grim – at Castle Black. He wondered at the change, if killing Bolton had done her more damage than good. Sansa used the remaining water in the pail to fill the jug before holding it over him. “Close your eyes,” she said, a soft command, and Jon did so, enjoying the feel of the warm water sluice back from the edge of his forehead to roll down through his hair, the trickling sound that hit the basin lulling him into a serene state.

After a few quiet minutes, Sansa spoke, her mouth near to his face as a second jug full of water cascaded over his head. He felt her breath tickle his eyelids. “I didn’t know for sure, Jon,” she offered softly, “that it would happen.”

“Didn’t know what would happen?” he asked with eyes still closed, his body feeling as weighted as the dead and having no desire to move.

She paused. “I didn’t know he’d come. Littlefinger. I met with him, you know, before we left Castle Black. At Mole’s Town. I brought Lady Brienne as protection. He told me he had Lord Royce and his men waiting at Moat Cailin. That he brought them for me. And I sent him away.”

“Why did you do that?” Jon asked out of curiosity, removing any judgment from his tone.

“Because I was angry. I told him how Ramsay had hurt me, how I still felt it. I wanted him to beg for my forgiveness. I said, what if I want you to die. And he responded, then I’ll die. I didn’t know what to say to that, except to say that I never wanted to see him again, that you and I would raise an army ourselves.”

“I see,” he remarked, letting her finish as she poured one last rinse over his head. Her desperation at the final war council was etched clearly in his mind.

“And then the houses kept turning us down. Lord Glover, then Cerwyn, with forces that we needed.” Her voice trembled. “I wrote to him the night you said we’d fight with the men we had. I’m sorry, Jon. You were right, I should have trusted you. But I couldn’t know for sure, so I said nothing. I don’t know why I …” she trailed off for a moment, while Jon waited. “That’s not true, I do know why. I couldn’t let him win, you understand. I had to beat him.”

“Littlefinger?” he asked, confused.

“Ramsay.” Sansa ran her fingers lightly over his scalp, tugging down through his hair to squeeze out the water. Her fist gripped a handful of his curls, her breath still soft gusts over his cheeks and lashes. “Even now, I won’t let him win.”

“He’s dead, Sansa. There’s nothing left of him, you saw to it. You won.” Jon opened his eyes and looked into her face, seeing her need there so plainly.

“But I still think about it,” she answered solemnly, and Jon felt a need rise in him, too, to comfort his broken sister. Then Sansa shot her gaze over his head and he knew without looking that she was staring at the bed. His body went ice cold. Jon sat up slowly, grabbing her wrist.

“Sansa. He never … he never brought you into these chambers, did he?” he asked, the thought sickening him. She’d told him that Bolton would come to her room at night.

“A few times,” she admitted, and Jon was suddenly airless, his breath gone from his lungs.

“Why would you – I don – I don’t understand,” he choked through his words, shaking his head in his horror. “You _sent_ me here. This was your suggestion. Why would you allow me to sleep where …” he couldn’t even finish the thought.

Sansa cupped his cheek, and Jon went still. Her eyes bore intently into his, flashing with a will that was beyond his own. “Because you’re everything he wasn’t,” she said with conviction. “I meant what I said. You’re a good person, Jon. You will take this room back from him and erase all those things he did. I don’t want to be afraid of these spaces. I won’t. This is _my_ home. And you’re _my_ brother. I want to see _you_ here, not him, not those memories of what he did to me.”

They were so close that Jon forgot for a moment where he was, that he was sitting in a tub, gooseflesh rippling atop his naked skin. He looked down at where her hand gripped his, seeing their fingers threaded together. This was too much for him to bear. He wasn’t the man she thought he was.

“Sansa, you should have told me,” he said, his voice ragged and barely above a whisper as he uncoupled their hands. “I’m sorry that he did terrible things to you. I wish I could have protected you.” He’d repeated the words enough times at this point, but he didn’t know what else he could say. “You should go,” he urged. “Get some sleep. I … I don’t think you should be here.” He suddenly noticed his nakedness again. “Also, I need to get out,” he said with some embarrassment.

Sansa stood up hastily and went to reach for the linen to dry him. “Here, let me help,” she said, and Jon glanced sharply at her again, forehead creasing as he was further confounded by her actions. Seeing his face, she seemed to realize her mistake and grimaced, eyes squeezed tight. “Oh, right,” she said, turning around to step away from the tub. “I’ll give you your privacy, of course.”

With her back to him, Jon took a deep breath before deciding to move. The intimacy of their discussion and her consequent revelation left him at odds. He couldn’t demand she leave, not now; she was as vulnerable as him at the moment. The water lurched along the sides as he stood up in the tub, and he wrapped the linen around his waist first before stepping out. The material clung to his wet body as he held it tight. He bunched it at the hip to slip into a knot as he looked around for his clothes. Sansa had reached for another linen lying on the pile by her bottles.

“You don’t have a vanity, but if you sit at your desk I’ll dry your hair with –” She’d just turned back around when she froze, the gauze spread wide in invitation. Jon stood awkwardly, afraid to upset her further, gripping the knot to keep the linen in place. Sansa’s mouth dropped open in a gasp, her eyes wide at the sight of him and Jon dropped a glance down his front, feeling exposed, when it occurred to him what she was staring at. The gashes in his belly were dark slits, the ones not yet closed still bruised and blackened furrows mapping his abdomen, and Jon instantly slid over a hand to cover the worst of them. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath.

Sansa made another distraught noise and clapped her hand to her mouth, dropping the linen as she did. Jon watched her shocked expression turn pained, tears starting to well up in her eyes, and he grew alarmed. He’d managed to horrify her anyway.

“Oh, no … no, no, it’s alright,” he said, keeping his voice light in an attempt to assuage her. He held up a palm to guard off her tears. “Don’t be upset. I’m fine, Sansa. They don’t hurt, I promise you.”

“Jon, I –” Sansa turned her face to the wall, blinking rapidly. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have – I didn’t realize,” she stumbled over her words as she backed away, clutching at her stomach. “Please forgive me for intruding, I didn’t mean to … I should go.” She snapped a look at him once more before twisting her head away with another gasp, her distress ratcheting higher. She sobbed loudly as she got closer to the door. Jon took a step towards her, again wanting to comfort her, but abruptly stopped, not knowing how he could.

“Sansa, I’m really alright,” he tried again, his words rushed. “It looks bad, but I swear to you, I don’t feel anything anymore.”

“I have to go, Jon,” Sansa gasped again in stuttered breaths, her eyes avoiding his. “I’m sorry.” She tugged frantically on the knob of his door before it would open, but once it yawned wide, Sansa dashed out without another word. Jon knew better than to follow her.  
  


“Sansa!” he called to her. “I promise you, I don’t feel them!” Jon heard her footsteps clatter noisily over the stones as she ran down the corridor. Sighing heavily, he closed his eyes and held his hips, taking stock of the scene that had just transpired. No matter his intent, he kept doing the wrong thing. He didn’t know which was more difficult – preparing for the dead or dealing with his sister. He wiped a hand over his face and rubbed at his jaw, his fatigue a swarm of bees under his skin. He glared at the unfortunate bed in his chambers and sighed again. No sleep for tonight. Jon took the few steps to the door and quietly shut it closed.

* * *

She bolted up in her bed with a gasp, fear thick in her throat.

It was still night, the fire burning low. The familiar sound of hounds barking receded into her consciousness as Sansa shivered, only this time they’d been accompanied by the mournful howl of a wolf. Sansa looked towards the windows and wondered if Ghost was hunting, if perhaps the howls were real. She wished for his company.

It hadn’t been Ghost that she’d seen in her dreams, however.

Sansa clutched at her stomach again, rubbing her palms under her breasts as she thought of Jon’s wounds, remnants of the vicious imaginings in her nightmare a visceral reminder of how close she’d come to having no family at all. That she might have arrived at the Wall to be greeted with a corpse. Had she simply denied it before? What had she thought, truly, when Ser Davos and Jon’s wildling and Night’s Watch friends all informed her that Jon had been dead? That they’d somehow been mistaken? She’d accepted it, of course, and expressed joy that her brother was alive, that he hadn’t met the same fate as Robb or Father before she could find him, but none of it had been real. That she’d escaped from her monster hadn’t felt real. Jon had introduced her to a giant and that hadn’t felt real, either; that it might crush her husband in its fist only a passing fanciful notion. The reality of Jon being gone from this world for a short time was a philosophical and emotional minefield that she hadn’t been prepared to navigate, and so she’d pushed it away, focused instead on the things she could understand: that Winterfell was hers to take back, that Ramsay would die. And that Jon would help her.

 _But Jon had died_. The proof was there, staring at her in the angry, livid marks of his body, marks that felt too familiar. Sansa knew the pain of the blade. She’d lived in the House of the flayed man for months. It was expected that Boltons would have skill with a knife, Ramsay had explained. Yet the violence displayed upon her brother’s torso had shocked her outright. And if those hadn’t been enough, the crescent moon over his heart was the surest sign that he hadn’t survived. Yet, she’d felt his heart beating when she’d thrown her arms around him at Castle Black. How fast it had thumped as he’d clutched her to him then, and Sansa had felt the first glimmerings of happiness since before her father died. How reality pressed her on all sides now. Ramsay was gone, giants existed, and a mythical ice god was leading thousands of dead men to destroy them. She’d even heard tell there were dragons in the east, born to a Targaryen woman. What could she hold on to in all of this madness?

Bits of her dream came back to her in flashes and she moaned as she saw them. Jon taking blade after blade into his stomach, into his chest, his body reacting to the blows, was a horror that wouldn’t leave her once she had visualized it. This, too, felt familiar, as every night that Ramsay had come to her she’d thought of his organ thusly, a hard blade that stabbed into her again and again until it would rip her body open. She imagined Jon’s blood seeping out of those wounds, recalled the blood that had flowed from between her legs those first few nights. As if Ramsay’s body hadn’t done enough damage to her, the things he would put inside of her left Sansa cold and screaming. Had Jon screamed too?

_Ramsay did. Until the dogs bit off his face._

Sansa heard the hounds barking again, but this time they were coming from her window. Another howl went up, distant and forlorn, and Sansa was caught by the loneliness of it. The moonlight filled her window, luminous rays casting over the ledge to splash across her mother’s vanity while the rest of her parent’s room lay in darkness. She imagined her brother might be up watching the moon as well, his restlessness as scattered as her own. Would she find him in the halls again? It was suddenly important for her to see him, to see that he was solid and alive, not one of the walking dead that were coming for them all, but the Jon she’d always known, the Jon she needed.

 _You’re here for me_ , she had told him the night before. Sansa remembered how she had prayed in the godswood at Kings Landing for someone to save her, and when that had finally happened only for her to be sold to the Boltons, how she had prayed even harder to the Old gods for someone to save her. Until she had been done with praying altogether. The gods hadn’t protected her, Littlefinger hadn’t protected her; no one had. She’d been a stupid girl to think that they would.

But perhaps someone had listened.

Jon had been brought back right when she needed him. Jon had gone with her to plead their cause with every house; he’d amassed an army for her. And Jon had fought, hard and bravely, had been prepared to kill Ramsay. Perhaps Jon _was_ here for her, after all.

Sansa slid her legs to the side of the bed, dropping her feet to the floor as she reached for her robe. It lay tossed at the edge, powder white velvet with grey fur for its collar. Sansa wrapped it around her and let the moon and the light from the fire guide her way to the door. When she slipped into the hall, she looked to both ends of the corridor on alert for the guards. There was no one about. Turning resolutely in the direction of Jon’s bedchambers, Sansa hoped to find him alone. Melisandre may have been gone, but there were other women in the castle. Women who had eyes for her brother. Sansa had caught her new handmaidens several times already, staring at him with coquettish smiles, giggling about him later in the kitchens in quickened breaths when Sansa had gone to talk to the cook. Others had been more brazen in the way they looked at him, the visiting ladies staying in the guesthouse who would watch him at dinner, such as young Alys Karstark, who’d arrived just yesterday and had trembled in his presence, her fair skin flushed pink and eyes wide as moons when she was introduced. Sansa found their flirtations irritating, particularly from young girls in disloyal families.

But no, Jon wasn’t like that. Surely the red woman had been an aberration? He was a serious person who found such things to be frivolous. Her brother had spent years at the Wall in the company of men, a momentary lapse in judgment was bound to happen, Sansa reasoned. She would more likely find him haunting the halls with his direwolf at this late hour than in another’s embrace. A flash of Jon’s naked back, his bum moving in fast thrusts, invaded her mind, but she quickly dispelled it with a shake of her head, staying on her path with determined steps until in short time she approached his room – Jon’s room, not Ramsay’s. She found the area quite busy, however, as two of the guards were in the midst of transporting the bed frame out of the doorway, a third man directing them. It lumbered on its side like a hulking carcass as they tried to squeeze it through, but all of them stopped and turned to her as she strode up.

“What’s going on? Where’s Jon?” she demanded to know.

“Lord Sno – er, the Lord Commander asked us to remove it, m’lady,” the one directing the others said. Gareth was his name, she recalled. “He told us to burn it and fetch him another.”

“He said he’d be in the library and to let him know when it was done,” another added with a huff, straining to hold on to the end of a headboard as he hauled it backwards into the corridor.

“The library?” Sansa’s face fell. She hadn’t been there since she’d left for Kings Landing with Father. Ramsay certainly had never let her out long enough to visit. And Sansa wasn’t about to head all the way to the other side of the Guest House in the manner she was dressed. She cast her gaze behind her, hoping to see her brother walking up from his evening of reading, but there was no one there. Sansa sighed in frustration.

“I’ll go see to him, then,” she said. She glanced again at the frame, its bedding already removed. Stripped of its finery, it no longer seemed ominous. It was just a bed. That her brother would burn it in light of what she’d told him made Sansa secretly pleased, however. Jon was her champion in so many ways, and a bubble of contentment rose up in her chest as she turned back to her room. Perhaps she would change and go find him anyway.

On her way back to her bedchambers, she chided herself again for considering even for a moment that Jon would be off on a dalliance with some girl. Her brother was too focused on what was coming to engage in such fancies. In fact, there were many things he was not engaged in, she had noticed. Such as paying attention to stalwart commanders like Lord Yohn Royce, who had been quite vocal about his distaste for the wildlings and how they were allowed to join in their feasts and traverse the castle grounds as guests. Sansa knew that Jon didn’t consider tempering the prejudices of men like that as worthy of his time, that he expected everyone to simply soldier through their misgivings and devote their energies to the crisis at hand, but she knew that those rumblings would only fester if left unattended.

The raspy voice of Littlefinger invaded her ears again. _Who should the North rally behind? The trueborn daughter of Ned and Catleyn Stark, born here in Winterfell? Or a motherless bastard born in the South?_

Sansa understood now what Petyr desired and it both frightened and encouraged her. This was a challenge she felt ready for, at long last, as Petyr had often been an enigma, his machinations always just out of her reach to see clearly. Her previous enticement rose in her mind, how she had attempted to show him that she was no longer the little girl, that she was aware he wanted her and dressed for his benefit. What had she hoped to accomplish then? To become a partner in his plans? No one seemed to control Littlefinger, not even kings, and Sansa had found that admirable once. But Petyr only served himself and that made him an unpredictable and dubious ally. His words about Jon left no chance in mistaking his intent. He wanted her as his prize with all the North in his grasp, but Petyr was as foolish as he was brilliant. He would connive and plot to turn support away from Jon in whatever way that he could. She had to remind Jon that only if the two of them worked together would they be able to sway all of their bannermen to follow them. Jon was not subtle in diplomacy, but nor was she a master of war. They would fill in each other’s weaknesses with their strengths. 

For a second, Sansa was in the godswood again, Petyr’s face before her, as open and naked with his need as much as she’d ever seen on him before, and closing in for a kiss. She’d stopped him this time, and that little victory swelled within her now. No longer would men take their pleasures from her. Petyr had allowed her to see him, and she would seize that opportunity, let him get a taste of her whims and hard truths for a change.

She heard heavy panting behind her suddenly, soft padding on the stones, and without bothering to look, Sansa knew that Ghost had joined her. “Do _you_ know what he’s doing?” she said, before seeing the wolf lumber up beside her in the corner of her eye. “What is your master up to now?” She glanced at Ghost and he looked back with that red rimmed gaze, a knowing there that he wouldn’t impart. “Right,” she breathed, “figures you won’t tell me.”

As they turned the corner to arrive at her parent’s bedchambers, she came to a sharp stop. “Oh!” she gasped in delight. Her brother stood before her door, his head down as he held up a fist in mid-rap, a large and heavy tome clutched to his side. He wore only his tawny gambeson over his breeches, his leathers discarded. His tidy bun was disbanded to leave curls loose about his head, the black of his hair as glossy as a raven’s breast.

Jon glanced up in surprise. “You’re up?” His brow wrinkled as he watched them approach, disapproving of her roving, no doubt. Ghost loped over to his master to nudge at his elbow and Jon put his hand between the direwolf’s ears to scrub at his head.

“I was about to come find you in the Library tower,” she said in answer. “Your guards told me where you’d gone to.” She raised an eyebrow. “It appears they were in the midst of rearranging your furniture. It couldn’t wait till morning?”

Jon scowled as he looked away from her. “Sansa,” he said heavily. “Surely you didn’t expect me to …” he paused, his mouth open struggling for words. “I just thought it would make sense to do it while the castle slept. Less talking.”

Sansa felt that bubble expand, a smile touching her lips. “What are you doing here?” she asked, now curious.

His eyes widened, color spotting high in his cheeks. “Ah, I was …uh, just,” he shook his head. “I wanted to check on you. To make sure you were alright. After … after what you saw earlier.”

Sansa felt her own face heat up, remembering her brother’s naked torso. The shock of the moment had faded, and now she recalled his body in vivid detail. “Oh,” she said offhandedly, “it’s fine. I was – it was just shocking to see. I didn’t –” Sansa paused, too, considering her nightmarish musings. “I didn’t realize just how bad it was.” She groaned inside. “Oh, gods, I sound like an idiot. Of course it was bad, they murdered you. I suppose I had just not given that fact its true weight until I saw it. What they did to you.”

Jon nodded, his concern etched upon his features. “Aye, I understand,” he said gravely. “I have a hard time believing it myself, some days.” He looked to her door and then back at her. “Is that why you went looking for me? You should be asleep. I could see the first peek of dawn on my way back from the tower. These late nights of yours are beginning to trouble me.”

Sansa leaned a shoulder to the granite stones of the wall and smirked at her brother. “So you were going to wake me? Are you listening to yourself?” she noted in amusement. “Brother, heed thy words. Look at you, you’re about to fall over you’re so tired.”

“Sansa, we have so much to – ”

“Yes, yes, lots to do, I understand,” she humored as she grabbed for his wrist. “Since you’re here, why don’t you come in? I want to show you something.”

He appeared suddenly cautious, glancing first to where she gripped him and then to the door, regarding it as one would a dangerous animal. “In Father’s room?” He shook his head again, the curls at his neck tossing to and fro. “I meant, your room, of course.”

“Yes, I have something for you,” she teased with another smile. She had planned to show him after the feast the following evening, but she sensed a strain in Jon that she wanted to put at ease. She went to open her door, taking note of the cumbersome book weighing him down. “Some light reading?” she said, as she pointed her chin in the direction of his arm.

“I’m looking for anything I can find on the long winter,” he answered. “Or the Night King, the Children of the Forest, any ancient stories that might help. I told you I have my friend Sam at the Citadel working on his maester’s chain, and he’s been researching through their libraries as best he can. He’s sending me reports, but there’s nothing much as of yet.”

He followed her into her parents’ chambers as she darted to her lamps on the vanity and at her bedside, filling her room with light. Ghost immediately went to lay before the hearth, circling a few times before dropping his great weight to the ground, while his master held himself awkwardly, trepidation in his steps. Sansa tried to recall if she’d ever seen him in here before. She knew her mother wouldn’t allow it when they were children. It made her suddenly sad to think of how much Jon had been denied being on the periphery of their family. Theon had had more rights to the castle than her half-brother, the second son of Lord Eddard. That he was illegitimate didn’t seem important anymore.

“Well?” he asked, still uncomfortable. “What is it? I shouldn’t really… I shouldn’t be in here,” he finished.

“Why not?” Sansa frowned. She was the Lady of Winterfell, and she wanted her brother here. No one could refuse her in her own territory.

“It’s late. You’re a young lady. It’s not proper,” he said, looking abashed.

“Nonsense,” she uttered. “It’s just you and me and Ghost in the keep, Jon. Well, and Lady Brienne but she’s on the other side. Your guards are busy and our guests are elsewhere. There’s no one left to worry about any impropriety,” she stated with authority. “Besides, you’re my brother, not a–” she waved her hand about towards him, “– a potential suitor.” Oddly, she felt the heat rise in her cheeks again at the suggestion. Another vision of her brother’s body appeared in her mind and Sansa hurriedly turned away, heading to her chest to pull the sheets of drawings from under her pile of fabrics.

“Not everyone sees it the same way as you, Sansa,” Jon said from behind her. “I’m still a bastard, and there are those who find us … not to be trusted in some matters.”

“Well, _those_ people are not here,” she reiterated. “And your men trust you completely, Jon, as do I.” She handed him the sheaf of parchment, her scribblings in charcoal across the pages. “Here, I wanted you to see these. I’m having Markas make it.” Markas Tarner was the blacksmith who had taken Mikken’s place at Winterfell and had done his duty for the Boltons when Roose had become Warden of the North. Yet there was something in the man that Sansa had found trustworthy, his taciturn and serious nature reminding her of Jon.

Her brother put aside his book before taking them, untying the strand of leather that bound them and shuffling through each one, his expression puzzled. “Who are these for?” he asked, the sketches of the embellished armor drawn from each angle, back and front, the design of the twin direwolves on the gorget taking up a full parchment. She had mirrored them, the pair meant to represent both her and Jon, the last of Ned Stark’s children.

“They’re for you, silly,” she admonished. “Some proper armor with our house sigil, where it belongs.” She beamed as her brother took the drawings in, the tension in his face ebbing away to be replaced by something tender and warm. She pointed out the details on the matching vambraces. “See the tiny direwolves along the edges of the cuffs?”

“Thank you, Sansa,” he said quietly after a moment. Emotion was packed tight in his voice as he held her gaze, his expression so sad she felt struck by it. “This is very kind of you.” The Stark sigil emblazoned on Jon’s chest as he commanded their army was only right. Jon looked through the drawings again, an awe in his manner. “These are very good,” he commented after a while. “I didn’t know you had such talent as an artist.”

“I modeled the cut of the gorget on the styles that I’d seen on the knights at the tourneys of Kings Landing. Well, what I could remember.” Sansa felt that glow in her chest return, pleased at the way her brother responded to her gift. She had wanted to do something for him to make up for her distrust before the battle.

“You saw the tourneys?” Jon asked with widened eyes, a spark of jealousy there. “That must have been glorious.”

“Hardly,” she said drolly, “Unless you enjoy watching the Mountain split a horse in half.” Jon’s grin dropped like a stone. “But I did like the Knight of the Flowers. His armor was resplendent. The detail in his breastplate was so intricate.”

“The Knight of the Flowers?” Jon echoed. He gave her a curious stare. “You liked him?”

Sansa sighed, suddenly recalling that both Loras and Margaery were dead, thanks to Cersei. “I did.” She had found him beautiful, his temperament the very antithesis to Joffrey. “I was almost wedded to him, if Lady Margaery and Lady Olenna had gotten their way. I could have escaped to Highgarden. Alas, Tywin Lannister got wind of it and I was married off to the Imp, instead, securing their hold on the North after having our brother murdered.”

Jon’s eyebrows flew to his forehead. “You were almost married to Tyrell?” He narrowed his gaze at her. “I liked Tyrion, when we traveled together. He may be a Lannister, but he’s a good man. Better than his brother. How do you know all that, about Tywin?”

Sansa flumped down in the chair by her sewing chest and waved a hand to her bed, offering Jon a seat. She was eager for conversation, a chance to stave off sleep and more nightmares. “Tyrion implied as much. And Lord Baelish confirmed it after we escaped from the wedding. It was unfortunate that I didn’t get to see the full theatre of Joffrey’s demise. I would have enjoyed that. I’ve heard it was quite ghastly.”

Jon had continued to glance back to the bed as she spoke, his unease still wrapped in his shoulders. He finally allowed himself some space near its corner, gingerly perching on its edge while laying her drawings on the bedspread with care. “It all sounds exhausting,” Jon said, propping his weight to the hand on his thigh as he leaned forward. “I fear it must be overwhelmingly disappointing to you. To finally make your way home, after everything you’ve suffered, only to discover we have the biggest fight ahead of us still, with the North as the first line of defense. I can’t imagine how we’ll convince them, but at a certain point, we’ll have to warn the rest of Westeros what they’re about to face. We won’t be able to defend ourselves alone.”

“Don’t expect any help from Cersei,” she said automatically. “And I’m not disappointed at all. How could I be? I’m back in my home, with my very much alive brother – instead of a house of pretenders – and no longer married to my rapist. I’m ecstatic. I’ll dance with the Night King when he gets here to convince you of my merriment, if need be.”

But Jon wasn’t amused by the joke, his face still grim as he watched her recount her blessings. “Have you thought about,” he began hesitantly before stopping, appearing to be in a debate on whether or not he should continue. He looked down at his knees, rubbing a hand over his eyes, before trying again. “What I meant to say, is do you have anyone you can … talk to about this? A confidant. One of your handmaidens, perhaps? Maester Wolkan, even. Someone who can help you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, feeling oblivious. “Confidant for what?”

Jon sighed again, his discomfort growing. “To help you unburden. What you went through … your experience. With Ramsay.”

“Why would I want to talk to anyone about that?” She couldn’t understand what Jon was driving at. “It’s done.”

“Sansa. You’ve obviously been wanting to discuss it. You’ve mentioned it to me often enough. And with what you shared earlier… I just think it would be good for you to talk to someone. Perhaps the Lady Brienne.”

“If I cared to discuss it with someone outside of my family, I certainly wouldn’t choose Lady Brienne,” she said, irritated at the suggestion. “What would she know about such unpleasantness, anyway? I’m pretty sure she’s still a maid. But aside from that, what’s wrong with you?”

Jon remained adamant. “I don’t think I’m the person you should be sharing such … intimate details with,” he reasoned. “Wouldn’t you prefer a woman with whom you can discuss this matter?”

“Not particularly, no,” she snapped. She thought of Myranda again, how her jealousy and spitefulness could barely remain contained the longer she spent in Sansa’s company. Then there was Cersei, who had told her that a woman’s weapon was her cunt. “Men understand as much as women what goes on. Even more so.”

Her brother did not take the notion well. “Why do you say that?” he said roughly, hurt blooming in his features. His eyes shone darkly. “You think I know what makes a man commit such a heinous act?”

But Sansa would not demur. “Yes, I do,” she lobbed back just as forcefully. “Not that you yourself could ever do such a thing, that’s mad. But let’s not pretend you aren’t aware of what he did, what he was capable of. You’ve seen the darkest turns of men for yourself. Gods, you felt it. How did they sneer at _you_ when they plunged their daggers in your belly and sliced you open? What did you see in those faces as they did it? They _butchered_ you, Jon.”

He sat agape at her outburst, so taken aback he couldn’t speak. His mouth hung open with eyes like saucers for several beats before he moved. Jon stood up in a rush, hands curled into fists, ready to leave, and just as quickly sat back down, staring off into the fire where Ghost lay before it. The direwolf perked up his head, ears squared, to see what had upset his master. Jon exhaled a heavy breath, still not looking to her as he spoke.

“They’re not the same thing, Sansa. Men kill each other. It’s what we were raised to do. But what you endured … I don’t want to think about what he did to you every time you say these things. To have such scenes painted in my mind. I’m sorry. I know that’s not helpful. I want to … I want to offer you comfort. It’s just hard for me to hear it.”

Sansa pushed off her chair and lunged for a seat on her bed, grabbing Jon’s hand as she pressed herself against an arm, suddenly needing to be near him. The idea that anyone might want to comfort her had been foreign to her for so long and it moved her to hear her brother say it. “And what of you, Jon? Did you talk to anyone about what happened to you? Have you given yourself time even to … to adjust? How does one recover from death, anyway?”

Jon regarded her solemnly. “I don’t think you do,” he said, his voice soft but grave. Their hands still entwined, he dragged them together to rest on a thigh. “But I did have someone. To talk to.”

“Not the red woman?” It came out of her mouth before she could think, and Jon turned to her in surprise once again.

“No,” he said, a hard press to his reply. “Davos.” He reared his head back, doubtful. “Why would you think it was Melisandre?”

“Well, you sometimes went to her tent in our camp, after we left Castle Black,” she began, reading his face carefully. “You went to talk to her the eve of the battle.”

His brow furrowed. “Aye, so I did. She wasn’t at the war council. I wanted to hear her thoughts on our strategy. If she’d … seen anything in her magic, I suppose.”

“And you lay with her?” Sansa coaxed, her face close to his, anticipating his reaction. Her brother’s mouth dropped open again.

“Sansa!” Jon shifted away from her. “Where is this coming from? I don’t know why you’d say such a thing.”

“Because it’s true?” she challenged. It annoyed her that her brother still found her naïve. “I saw you. I know you were with her the night we took the castle.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed to slits. “What’dyou mean?” he asked gruffly in that deep Northern burr. “Saw _what_?” Sansa felt a sudden tingle in her breasts which traveled down her arms and seized her spine, worried that she’d said too much. But Jon had to understand that she wasn’t a child anymore. She didn’t need protecting.

“I mean, I went to look for you. And then I heard her. Ghost took me right to you both. You were fucking,” she said brazenly, with an arch of her eyebrow, eager to shock her brother into acceptance.

She expected those eyes to go comically wide yet again, but they stayed hooded, his face still as stone. He studied her keenly, jaw tight, eyes flicking about her face with a queer glint shining there. She watched his throat bob as he swallowed thickly.

“You watched us,” he said, a confirmation not a question.

Finally, Sansa’s skin flushed as she recalled her embarrassment from that moment, but she kept her gaze on her brother, refusing to look down. The images of him and that woman loomed large in her brain, how the priestess had goaded her.

“Well, I didn’t stay, obviously. But perhaps you should close your door next time. Or were you so eager to get to it?” It was Jon who looked away at that, and Sansa felt a small thrill, seeing him chuckle poisonously, a tight smile plastered to his face as he clenched his jaw.

“I thought that I had,” he said in a snarl. “But that’s not an excuse, Sansa. You had no right to spy on me.”

“I told you, I was following Ghost. I wasn’t spying on you. But perhaps Melisandre wanted me to see you.”

Jon slid eyes to her with suspicion. “How do you figure that?” he asked, incredulous. “For what purpose?”

“I don’t know!” she shouted. “I don’t know why you were even with her!” Her disappointment from that night came back in spades. “But she looked at me, as if she knew something about me. It was upsetting.”

“Aye, I imagine it was,” her brother agreed sarcastically. He sighed, pressing his eyelids with a thumb and forefinger. “It was an upsetting evening.”

But Sansa wanted answers. “So … how long had you been lovers then?”

“Gods,” he breathed out, his fingers still pinching his eyes. Jon dropped his hand and faced her, resolute. “We weren’t. Lovers. It was just … it was only that night. I made a mistake. A terrible mistake. _Obviously_.” He tipped his head back, staring at the ceiling of her chambers. “I was upset, too, Sansa. We lost our brother. And she was … I can’t explain why it happened. It just did, alright?”

“Is that why you didn’t execute her?” she asked plainly. But her brother shot her an angry look, eyes flashing with something dark and dangerous.

“No, Sansa. While I typically don’t look forward to taking a woman’s head off after I’ve just bedded her, there was, actually, more to it than that.” Jon made a noise of disgust in his throat.

Sansa was simply happy to have her brother talking about it, however. She pressed on, eager to find out as much about Jon as she could.

“But she wasn’t your first,” Sansa stated, sure of it. “You’d been with other women.”

Jon leaned forward and gripped his knees, taking a deep breath. He exhaled slowly as he glared at the fire, refusing to look at her, but Sansa could be patient if it garnered her any information he might share.

“Why do you need to know this?” he finally asked of her. “It’s none of your concern. That is my private business.”

“What is it like?” she asked, suddenly desperate to know. That there had to be something beyond the brutality and pain she’d suffered. Once more, Jon was taken off guard, and he snapped his head towards hers, searching her face for her meaning.

“What are you asking me, Sansa?” His expression softened the tiniest bit as he waited for her to answer.

“I want to know what it’s like,” she repeated. “When men want you, and not want to hurt you. Do women like it? The women you’ve been with?”

There was a hushed quiet that filled the room then, the only sound the light crackle of the dimming fire, while Jon eyed her critically. He turned away, scanning the room and taking note of its contents, as if each piece held some mystery for him. He exhaled another gust of patience, shaky yet somehow decisive at the same time.

“I was with another. We were … together. For a while.” He looked at her then, his voice empathetic. “I know it seems impossible now, Sansa, but there will come a time when this will all be behind you. You will find a good man. You will love him, and you’ll marry. You’ll have beautiful children. And you will know that joy. It’s … it can be quite wonderful. When you care about the other person.”

But Sansa was not swayed, shaking her head. “I’m not interested in any of that. Not anymore.” She had no use for that fantasy, as relevant to her as her prayers in the godswood. “I simply want to know what …what _sex_ is meant to be like. If there’s a reason to go through all that if its not for a child.” Sansa peered into her brother’s face, hoping to see the truth of it there. “Did you love her?”

He widened his eyes in surprise at first, but grew thoughtful at the question. “Yes,” he said softly, the sadness in his voice as thick as the snows covering their lands, puncturing her steeliness. “I did. Very much.”

“What happened to her?” she asked, although she already suspected the answer.

“She died in my arms.” Her brother smiled with a forlorn weariness, the depth of sadness sewn into its lopsided slant a great and cavernous pit.

Sansa reached for Jon’s hand and gripped it tightly in her own, happy that he let her. “Who was she?” She wanted to hear more of her brother’s life, to understand the origins of that always present despair that shone in him.

He sat staring at the fire again, awash in memories, eyes alight as the fire flickered in them. “She was a Wildling girl. Freefolk, I mean. Fierce. Loyal. Relentless,” he flashed a true smile. “But full of curiosity and joy.” He looked at her with a tilt of his head. “I used to think she was so different to you, but perhaps you’re more alike than I realized.”

“Why do you say that? How were we different?”

Jon shrugged. “I suppose I had this idea of you, back then. How you were the last time I saw you, before we all left. A highborn girl who spent her time daydreaming of pretty princes and pretty dresses. While she was a warrior, and a ruthless one at that.” He slid a glance at her, his smile curving into one of shared understanding between them. He shrugged again. “I guess I truly do know nothing.”

Sansa returned the smile, her chest filling with warm sunlight that made her breasts tingle again. That her brother might consider her a warrior filled her with a pride she’d never known before. “I was a child then, Jon,” she reminded him. “I’m not that girl anymore.” She thought of what she’d lost in order to get here, but a part of her was pleased with who she was now: a resilient woman who wouldn’t be defeated. Sansa felt as if she’d passed a grand test; that her suffering had offered her something important, and she held to it tightly. There had to be something for her at the end of it all.

Jon sighed longingly into the room, squeezing her hand before letting go. He rose off the bed, but Sansa grabbed at his wrist, not wanting her brother to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“Sansa, its so very late. Try to sleep a bit before the servants are up. I’ll see you when we break our fast.”

“No, don’t go,” she pleaded, not wanting to disrupt the coziness of their little moment of intimacy. “You need to sleep as well. You’re barely functional. Just take a nap here before we have to be up. I’ll wake you, I promise.” She pulled him down back to his seat on the bed again.

Jon seemed uncomprehending at first. “What? What do you mean?” he laughed.

Sansa instantly dropped to her knees on the floor, shifting to take hold of his boot. She propped it in her lap, and began to gently tug at the heel, her hand on the back of his foot. “Take these off and lie back. Just nod off for an hour or two to refresh yourself. It will do you some good. Why waste time walking all the way to your chambers?”

But Jon reached for her hand to stop her, attempting to remove his leg from her clutch. “Sansa, no. I’m not staying here. It’s inappropriate. I’m fine, I keep telling you. I don’t know why you won’t believe me.”

“Because you’re not believable,” she retorted. “Don’t be difficult. Just listen to me for once.” She pulled off his boot with great satisfaction and quickly took hold of the other.

“Bloody hell, Sansa,” her brother swore. “Do you not put any faith in me at all? I know what I’m talking about.”

“And so do I,” she challenged. She removed his other boot and threw it to the foot of her chair, out of his reach. She moved to stand up and put her hand to Jon’s shoulder, pressing him backwards. “Now lie back and get some sleep, Jon. Ghost and I will watch over you,” she said with a smile.

Jon rubbed his hand over his face, she heard him swear another oath under his breath. She took advantage of the moment and wrapped her grip around a muscled calf, swinging her brother’s leg up onto the bed. “Good, it’s settled,” she said. She reached over him as Jon pushed himself back, and took hold of her pillow, pressing the back of his shoulder to move him up so she could tuck it behind him. Sansa moved down to the end of the bed to unfold her crocheted throw and spread it over Jon, much to his annoyance. But she didn’t care. Being allowed to take care of her brother gave her a sense of purpose that she needed.

“I’ll stay a little while longer, but then I need to go,” Jon insisted, and Sansa let him have that delusion, busying herself by moving to the hearth and adding another log to the slowly dying fire. She stoked it as he went quiet, Ghost watching her as studiously as his master often did. When she returned to the bed, Jon had closed his eyes at least, and Sansa picked up her sketches of his armor and returned it to her chest. She heard a sharp breath behind her.

“Thank you, Sansa,” he mumbled sleepily. “For the armor.”

Sansa beamed again, making her way back to the bed to sit beside him. She nudged at his hip with her own and he shifted over enough to give her space, his body held stiff. His eyes weren’t closed completely and Sansa felt him watching her from between dark slits. “I’m glad you like it,” she acknowledged. She hovered a hand over his chest, watching it rise and fall with his steady breaths. “It will look nice on you,” she added, envisioning the gorget at his collar. With a sudden tenderness, Sansa pat her hand to the crown of his head, stroking his hair with a deep affection. Her brother sucked in a long, deep breath.

“That feels nice,” he said with the exhale, his body stilled. Sansa continued, stroking her fingers through his luxurious curls as they lay splashed over her pillow, a feature of her brother’s that she’d always admired. Sansa began to hum a song that she recalled from her childhood, one her mother used to warble to her in the evenings as she brushed out her hair before bed. For several minutes they sat like that, her brother fading away as she stroked his hair, and Sansa felt that contentment rise up in her. The two of them, here in her parent’s bedchamber, about to face the Northern lords together – it was all she could have hoped for. Jon would be by her side. They were a force as formidable as any great house, the Starks’ return to their former glory. She was the Lady of Winterfell, and her bastard brother her sad and wild wolf, ready to fight for her. She listened as Jon’s breathing evened out, saw his head drop to its side as sleep finally took hold of him. Watching his face carefully for any change, Sansa crept her hand over his chest, laying it over his heart as Jon stayed asleep, and felt it thud under her palm, strong and hale. She imagined Jon with his Wildling lover, wondered what her serious brother looked like in love. She scooted closer to sit level with his chest, leaning over him to see the peacefulness in his face. In a fit of boldness, Sansa leaned all the way down and felt her brother’s breath on her lips, those full lips of his mouth in their perennial pout, felt his heart still beating under her touch, the heat of his body warming her through her fingertips. Without another thought, Sansa lay over him and dropped her head closer. She pressed her mouth to his, a pulse between her legs as she did so. He didn’t stir, and she stayed like that a moment longer, rising and falling with his chest. When Sansa sat up, she smiled at her brother again, watching as he slept. Jon needed someone to watch over him, and she was happy to do it. Standing up, Sansa took off her robe and laid it at his feet, then moved around to the other side of her bed and got under the covers, her thoughts on the upcoming meet.

******

It couldn’t have been more than an hour later when Sansa was awakened. She sat up quickly, her senses immediately alert, eyes darting around her room for her menace. But Ramsay wasn’t here, not even the hounds could be heard. The fire was but embers, a wispy light seeping into the corners of her room with the approaching dawn. She heard a voice beside her and turned to see her brother toss his head towards her, still asleep. “Stop,” he mumbled, his hands squeezing the covers in his fists. He moaned and tossed his head away, his leg jostling in anxious anticipation. “Stop!” he shouted and Sansa got up on her knees, reaching for Jon, when suddenly he bolted upright.

“Olly!” he cried hoarsely, his eyes open in horror. Jon’s fists pressed to the bed, but his body shook violently, his eyes unseeing of the room. Sansa put a hand to his shoulder delicately, not wanting to startle him further.

“Jon,” she said quietly. Her brother whipped his face towards her, his fist drawn, eyes still full of abject terror and holding his body away from hers. Sansa froze, fearing he might turn violent, panic rising in her throat. Finally, a dawning filled his expression as he recognized her and he dropped his fist to press to his stomach.

“Sansa? What are you doing here?” he croaked.

“We’re in my room,” she reminded him, feeling coming back into her limbs. “You’re alright. Everything is all right. No one can hurt you.” She pressed her hand to the back of his neck to calm him as she settled beside him, his shoulders still shaking. It felt powerful, being the one to comfort her strong and stoic brother, not the other way around.

Jon glanced at his surroundings, the full understanding of his whereabouts taking root. He leapt off the bed suddenly, whirling around to look at the floor as her throw tangled about his legs. “I need to go,” he said, instantly back to his reticent self. “Where are my boots?”

“Jon, take a breath. You just had a nightmare. What happened? Who’s Olly?”

Her brother stared at her in horror again. “No one,” he said gruffly after a beat. “Now where are my boots?”

When she pointed them out, Jon grabbed them and plunked himself in her chair, pulling them on quickly and efficiently. “Jon, we can talk about it if you’d like,” she offered, but her brother was already up and walking to her door. “Jon,” she called again, but he left her room without a look back, and she was met with the quiet click of the door closing behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Years, all! Welcome to 2020

**iv.**

“How do you know? I mean, look at her. She’s no mere mortal. Her beauty is from the gods.”

Tormund sat by Jon at the head table, their guests dotted about the hall in clusters, little groups of Hornwoods, Mormonts, men from the Eyrie, chatting amongst their own. Davos seemed to be in a fierce debate with Lady Brienne judging by the gesticulations of his hands and her pursed mouth, the early hour of the morn having no dampening effect on his energy.

“She doesn’t have giant’s blood, Tormund,” Jon insisted. “Her father is the lord of Tarth. He’s never met a giant. Her mother never met a giant. There are no giants in her family.” It came out harshly, much more than was intended, which Jon instantly regretted, but Tormund paid him no mind, his gaze firmly fixed on the woman of his misguided affections. Jon took another sip of his ale, hoping to revive his senses soon.

“Ha! Tarth,” he bit off with disdain. “She belongs in the north, where giants and bears will kneel before her.”

“I thought your people didn’t kneel,” Jon reminded his friend.

“I would kneel for her.” Tormund grinned, raising his eyebrows to Jon in lascivious fashion, his innuendo clear but feeling the need to knock elbows with Jon anyway. Jon looked away, noticing his sister had arrived in the hall. She came in with Baelish, and instinctively Jon’s lip curled in distaste.

“Are you going to eat that?” Tormund asked, pointing at the fish on Jon’s plate. He looked down momentarily, his disinterest in food starting to concern him, but flicked a hand to Tormund to help himself.

Jon’s attention went back to Sansa and her companion, the man setting off alarm bells in Jon’s head with his mere presence. The way he hung to her side, just a step behind her, following her around like a dog waiting for a scrap. It unnerved him. The two of them ambled their way slowly between the tables, Sansa stopping every few feet to say good morning and have a few words with their visiting lords while Baelish would whisper in her ear as they walked to the next group. Jon didn’t like the whoremonger’s influence on his sister, particularly with Sansa’s queer behaviour lately. Those few hours ago came back to hound him, how he’d awakened from the dream again shocked to find himself in his sister’s bed. Her questions for him during the night had disturbed him enough already. What was going through her head? Jon’s gaze stayed on her as they made their way to the table where Lady Mormont sat, Sansa so regal in her black dress fashioned like a shield: the bodice resembling armor with its pleated layers, a metal circle hanging at her neck, its connecting chains draped along her body, pelts across her shoulders. Even the thick leather belts wrapped twice around her waist screamed a warning to those looking. And her expression always neutral, her demeanor just pleasant enough to engage those around her. Jon admired her ability, the way she could summon up this persona, when underneath Jon understood with an increasing clarity that she was far from alright.

“What kind of cunt wears a moustache like that,” Tormund commented as he followed Jon’s line of sight. “Looks like he ate some shit and forgot to wipe his mouth.” Jon promptly pushed his plate away to the other side of the table. “Seems like a miserable fucker.” Jon certainly agreed. “Why is he always with your sister?”

Jon raised his eyebrows at the question. “I am beginning to wonder that myself,” he said, watching them make their way to Royce who stood instantly, bowing in deference as she strode up to where his party sat.

“That fat one doesn’t like me,” Tormund noted, watching the procession as well. “But you know, I don’t like him, either. How does he move under all that metal? So much of it to cover his great fat belly.”

Jon took another deep gulp of his ale while trying to clear his thoughts from all that plagued him recently, only half listening as Tormund continued his running commentary on the lords of the north. There were already a dozen plans underway, he and Davos drawing up reinforcements for the castle walls along with repairs from the battle. A new gate was currently under construction, one doubled in thickness to prepare for the coming war.

“Your sister is a beauty, too.” Tormund slapped Jon on the back, making him spill half his ale all over the table with the force, but the man hardly noticed. “She’s kissed by fire, so you know she’s a fiery one when it comes to fucking,” he smiled broadly.

Jon blanched. “Tormund, she’s my sister,” he pointed out, offended on her behalf.

But his Wildling friend didn’t appear to understand the problem. “So?” Tormund looked over to where Sansa stood again, now tending to Lord Glover who took her hand when he bowed and kissed it. “She’ll give some lucky man a lot of babies,” he foretold, and Jon was so disturbed this time he stood up, eager to leave. Tormund was once again oblivious to the effect his words had on his friend. “Where are you going? You’ve hardly eaten?”

“I need to get ready for later,” he said brusquely, wanting to get out of the hall before Sansa and Baelish made their way to him. It was bad enough watching him skulk around the castle, Jon couldn’t bear the thought of having to participate in small talk with the man this early. He’d barely slept and had no idea what might come out of his mouth.

But before he could take a step the young Lady Mormont was in front of him, on the other side of the table, a wide smile on her face.

“Is it alright if I say hello to your wildling friend, Lord Snow,” she asked him. Jon shot a quick glance to where his sister stood chatting, her back to him as she had moved to yet another table. He sat down again to entertain the young girl. Sansa didn’t have to be the only one performing such duties. He put his gloves back on the table and smiled at her, hoping it was somewhat agreeable.

“Of course you may. Although they prefer to be called the Freefolk.” He turned to his friend, “Tormund Giantsbane, may I introduce you to the Lady of Bear Island, Lyanna Mormont.”

“Well, hello,” Tormund greeted her, looking delighted. “And how does a little lady as small as yourself get to be in charge of a whole island?” He widened his arms to illustrate the size.

“My mother died in battle,” she said matter-of-factly. “And I was her heir.”

“Oh, ho, the daughter of a great warrior, I like you,” he said with exuberance. She’d been surrounded by her men and advisors in the camps, while the Freefolk kept to their own, yet Jon was surprised that this was the first opportunity she’d had to talk to one of them. Nevertheless, he was pleased to see some of the Northmen and ladies mixing with the others.

“Some of my men said that you were a true fighter, that you were fierce on the field. They saw you rip off a man’s ear with your teeth. I wanted to tell you that I like your beard.”

“Of course you do,” Tormund agreed. “It is an impressive beard. I started growing it when I was as little as you.” Lyanna laughed, but Jon’s eyes had veered to the other side of the hall, watching where his sister spoke to Maester Wolkan. He considered suggesting again that she talk with the maester. Wolkan seemed competent enough, and certainly had been relieved to have a new family to serve with the Boltons end. Jon didn’t believe there were any medicines that could assist with her troubles but perhaps some Essence-of-nightshade to help her sleep would do some good. Her late nights were as frequent as Jon’s own and he worried that there were too many memories for her to dwell in, that while she may have been home, it was still the place where she’d been raped repeatedly. There were likely many more reminders left for her, even if he burned every bed in the castle.

He suddenly recalled the haunted women of Craster’s Keep, after his party had killed the mutineers, their trauma still so fresh on their faces. The one who’d saved him from Tanner’s killing blow, how she had seemed resigned to her suffering, her blank stares conveying that it had been all she’d ever known. He didn’t want his sister to be one of those women. He dropped his gaze and looked at the few sips of ale left in his tankard. The rapers sent to the Wall had become his black brothers. Men like Raster, a crow who’d been as horrible in every other aspect of his life as the crime which had sent him there in the first place. Those men hadn’t suddenly become honorable once they’d taken their vows. It wasn’t like Grenn, or even Pyp, sent there for stealing. Those two had been good friends, and braver men. Yet it hadn’t been surprising to Jon that the worst of them had killed the Old Bear, the order often feeling one step away from a prison. Sam had described in graphic detail how the mutiny had happened. At least the men who had killed Jon had been of a slightly better caliber than gutter rats from Gin Alley, he thought bitterly. He hoped that Edd had better luck than him. The Night’s Watch only meant one thing to Jon now.

* * *

“The Northern lords very clearly respect you,” Petyr rasped into her ear as they walked away from Wolkan. “Glover has come running back to Winterfell with his tail between his legs, hoping you’ll forgive his disloyalty. But what do these men hope to gain here, is what you should be asking yourself, my dear. Or perhaps your brother has some insight?”

Sansa turned her face away from Lord Baelish as she surveyed the hall, making sure that she’d greeted all the dignitaries that had come to break their fast so early in the morning. Jon would address them later but she wanted to glean where their support tilted before then. “My brother has no interest currently in what Lord Glover is hoping to gain from House Stark. He’s more invested in saving everyone’s lives.”

She glanced quickly at the head table, watching Jon engage with the Lady Mormont. Sansa had been hoping to find some time to talk to her brother soon, to make sure he was alright. His nightmare concerned her. She’d never felt him tremble like that before.

“Is he?” Petyr questioned in that unctuous way he had. “I’ve been hearing some interesting stories about your brother. Many of the northerners have much to say about him.”

“Do they?” Sansa mimicked. He followed her on her path to speak with Lady Brienne.

“Indeed, he sounds like quite a man. But his post as Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch seems to have many lords confused by his presence here. They’re questioning what happens to a man from the Wall when he breaks his vows? That perhaps your brother lacks honor.”

That stopped Sansa dead in her tracks. She rolled her eyes, making a dismissive sound in her throat as she turned to face him. “Lord Baelish, you obviously know as much about my brother as you did of Ramsay Bolton if you believe that, even for a moment,” she snapped. “There’s nothing more important to Jon than his honor and his family. He is his father’s son.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I seriously doubt that’s all you’ve heard about him.”

Petyr cocked his head, dropping his gaze to the floor. “My apologies, Lady Sansa, I did not mean to offend. You are right that I know little of Jon Snow. I am anxious to remedy that. But … if one were to believe the stories, his men took great issue with his decisions as the Lord Commander. It has been suggested that many of those in the Night’s Watch did not appreciate your brother allowing the Wildlings to come through to the other side of the Wall and take up Northern lands. That they may have even killed him for it.” He looked to the head table where Jon sat. “And yet, it appears his death has been greatly exaggerated.”

“The wildlings helped us defeat the Boltons, Jon did the right thing,” she said in his defense. She stopped again before they reached the table where Brienne was seated, turning to face Petyr in her annoyance. She knew what he was doing. “And the stories are true. I’ve seen it,” she muttered quietly.

“You saw your half-brother murdered?” Petyr questioned, with a lift to the side of his mouth.

“No, but I saw the results of it,” she confirmed. “No one could have survived wounds like that. And my brother doesn’t lie.”

“So, then it would seem I was correct. He _is_ quite a man.” Petyr smiled to her with maddening opaqueness. “As I said, it is my hope that I can meet with him soon. To learn more about this … war hero who cheated death.”

Sansa was not ready for that to happen. “He’s been very busy,” she replied. Petyr swung a look to the head table, as did she, where her brother sat conversing with a ten year old girl and a Wildling.

“Yes, I see that he is,” Petyr commented dryly.

At least her brother looked happy, she noted. “Lady Mormont’s sixty two men made more of a difference during the battle,” she said, nodding towards the scene. “Then Lord Glover’s sum total contribution of zero men. Lord Manderly was another whose forces were quite lacking. Perhaps they need to sit and re-evaluate their shortcomings rather than worry about what they might request of me and my brother,” she said bitingly. Sansa saw Petyr about to respond but cut him off, tired of his words. “I need to speak with Lady Brienne, Lord Baelish, so if you’ll excuse me, we can resume this after our guests have broken their fast. Do come find me later when you can find the time.” With her dismissal, Petyr bowed low and then left her, his trademark swagger in his steps as he made his way down to the table where Lord Royce sat.

Sansa cast her eye to the front of the hall again, and caught Jon staring at her. She felt a tingle run down her spine, knowing that he’d been watching her, and she remembered with a sudden palpability her lips on his the night before. She smiled encouragingly to him. Jon gave her a sad smile back. Rising from his chair, he leaned over and said something to Lady Mormont with a slight nod, tapping Tormund on the back, before leaving them both. She watched him head for the great doors, wanting to follow him. Sansa scanned the growing throng, wondering if it would be wise to leave, when she noticed how other people in the hall watched her brother, too, their eyes following him as he strode towards the doors, every inch of him commanding attention. Jon’s walk was full of purpose, as if he knew exactly where he needed to be at every moment. She envied him that. It was an innate part of him, there signaled in his bearing which suggested anyone whom he deemed worthy enough to stop for could count themselves very special indeed.

But she had almost reached Brienne and wanted to continue with her task, if for no other reason than to keep up her pretense for Littlefinger. She came up behind her sworn shield, who looked to be in another involving discussion with Ser Davos.

“Good morning, Lady Brienne. Ser Davos,” she greeted with a nod of her head. Ser Davos and Brienne instantly stood and nodded back to her. Brienne’s pleated leathers were a soft blue that added some color to her plain exterior and drew attention to the startling blue of her eyes.

It never failed to amaze Sansa how Brienne could fashion herself in men’s wear, cloaking herself in such masculine binds, and yet still retain a complete and unfailing earnestness that often grated on Sansa, no matter how hard she tried to ignore it. She knew that Brienne had killed many men, that she would kill for Sansa without question, yet the woman had a purity about her that Sansa had long since left behind. Not just in her body, but with such soulfulness and purpose; Brienne’s honor wrapped as tightly about her as Jon’s own. That she should admire it in her brother and yet found it irksome in Brienne confounded Sansa, and it shamed her when those moments crept into her speech. The notion that Brienne, as a woman, had been allowed this liberation that Sansa would never capture for herself felt a cruel mocking.

“Seven blessings to you, Lady Sansa,” Brienne rejoined. “I noticed that Lord Baelish was up early with you this morning.”

“Yes, he was. He escorted me from the Keep. You know how attentive he can be.”

“Aye, he’s been attentive to most of the castle,” Davos said, with a tilt of his head. “There’s been lots of talk the last few days as your guests have arrived, my lady. The gossip is thicker than the King’s steak, as we used to say in Flea Bottom.” He nodded to Brienne. “I was just telling the Lady Brienne, Jon will have plenty to address. I hope he’s up to the task. I haven’t seen the man finish a meal since before the battle. Doesn’t look like he’s slept, either.”

“Jon will be fine, Ser Davos,” Sansa insisted, a sharp note present that surprised her. She looked off to the towering doors of the hall. “Jon is Jon. You know how he is.”

“I do, indeed,” Davos replied. “Which is why I’m concerned.”

“You shouldn’t be,” she assured him. “I’m sorry, but I was hoping to speak with the Lady Brienne.” Sansa bent her head slightly as she regarded her. “Perhaps if you could join me in my father’s solar once you’re done with your meal.”

“Absolutely.” Brienne put her hand on the hilt of her sword. “I’m ready now, my lady.”

******

“Jon has some ideas,” she began, after they had both been seated to either side of her father’s great oak desk. “And I was hoping you could assist.”

“Of course, Lady Sansa. If I can help in any way at all, I wish to be of service.” A curious gleam settled in her eyes. “What sort of ideas?”

“He thinks that we need to train as many able-bodied northerners as we can in the ways of battle. He wants everyone to be able to fight, so that we can defend ourselves once the threat is here. We can’t simply leave it up to an army, he’s said.”

Brienne appeared surprised. “I see. That’s smart. Your brother thought of this?”

“Jon trained many of the recruits at the Wall before he became Lord Commander,” Sansa said. “Of course, he’ll want to take this on himself, but he can’t do it alone and I’d like to recommend you be the one to take lead on this.”

“It would be my honor, Lady Sansa,” Brienne replied instantly. “And Podrick would be of great help here, if I may be so bold. He’s become a solid fighter. I know he’d do well, given the chance.”

Sansa folded her hands atop the desk and thought of Jon’s time, how Davos was right and that her brother was pushing himself too hard. “You can appoint whomever you’d like as your assistants. As I said, I want you in charge of this. I know Jon will agree with me once I propose it. But I wanted to make sure you were alright with it first.” She flashed her eyes up at Brienne. “He wants the children trained as well. All of them. The girls, as well as the boys. He plans to suggest it to the Northern lords and ladies once they’ve gathered.”

Brienne sat back in her seat, seeming impressed with the news. “I like that. That’s very progressive of him. I suspect not all will be in agreement, however. My father drew quite a bit of ridicule when he taught me to fight.”

“It’s not about being progressive,” Sansa explained. “He said it’s about survival. He wants every person to have a fighting chance, regardless of age or sex. You know that my brother has seen much beyond the Wall. He saw … what’s coming. He wants us all prepared.” There was a gnawing curiosity within Sansa that wondered if Brienne believed the stories, too; the things she’d heard at Castle Black. They never discussed her brother’s resurrection. And this was the first they’d discussed battling ice demons coming to kill them. She regarded the other woman with a conspiratorial air. “Have you heard much about them?”

Brienne narrowed her eyes. “Much about whom, my lady?”

“You know. The dead. Have you spoken to any who have had first-hand accounts? Other than Jon, that is.”

“I did, my lady. When we were still at Castle Black. Too many men with too many similar stories to share for me to believe it was all a delusion of some sort. A fever amongst the locals. Your brother’s friend, the one who took over as Lord Commander – he was a dour fellow – but quite adamant about what he’d seen. I fear it will be as harrowing as they’ve described. Your brother is right to want to begin training now.”

She thought of what Jon had proposed, of confiding in Brienne as a way to unburden, but she didn’t want that kind of relationship with the woman who’d sworn to protect her. It was enough that Brienne was a witness to what she’d come through. Brienne had taken Jon’s death at face value, barely a wrinkle in her forehead when told that powerful magic had brought him back. She’d already told Sansa that she mistrusted the red woman, that she’d seen things, things like her shadow man with Stannis's face.

“Well, then, it’s settled. I’ll tell him that you can begin as soon as he convinces everyone that it needs to happen.” It seemed a task easier said than done.

Brienne looked about to speak but hesitated and Sansa waited quietly, knowing that she had something important to impart. “My lady,” Brienne began thoughtfully. “I’ve been back long enough to hear some of the others speaking. Met many of these Northern men and ladies. Some have enormous respect for your brother, but are quick to point out that he’s your father’s bastard. Others seem not to care. There’s a groundswell of … interest, it seems, in the kind of man he is. What they’ve heard and what they’ve seen. That,” she crumpled her face with disgust for a moment, “ _man_ who follows your brother around, the Wildling fellow, appears to be your brother’s biggest supporter. Well, him and Ser Davos, of course. But there are others still who look to you, Lady Sansa, as the one who should rule the North as your father’s true heir. They are curious about the future of House Stark. Are you sure you want your brother to address everyone at this evening’s assembly?”

Sansa thought of Littlefinger’s words again. “My brother was the one to lead us back here, the one who commanded our forces, who led the charge, Lady Brienne. He’s good at this. He unites people. He deserves the right to address those who joined us, and those who refused us. My brother and I are … together on how we should move forward. Jon may be a bastard, but he’s a Stark through and through. I know I can rely on him.”

Brienne nodded to her with conviction. “Of course, Lady Sansa. The two of you make a good team.”

Sansa felt a creeping smile on her face, a secret in her heart as she thought of the way Jon looked asleep on her pillow in the early dawn. “I agree,” she said, feeling optimistic for the evening’s feast. Her smile dimmed as she heard Jon’s scream, the nightmare persisting at the back of her thoughts. She needed Jon ready. They both needed to be ready for what was to come.

* * *

_The King in the North! The King in the North!_

Jon grinned deliriously as he was brought to the Great Keep, buoyed atop the shoulders of his men and a few of the lords. They were still drunkenly cheering, boisterous and rousing laughter ringing in the night air with their revelry. When they came to the archway of the keep, he was dropped down unceremoniously, his feet slamming on the ground hard as a few of the men tripped and knocked into him. Davos was suddenly there by his side to hold him up.

“Watch where you’re stepping, gentlemen. You don’t want to step on our King right after you’ve crowned him.” The group laughed uproariously and Jon laughed with them, still feeling the high from the evening’s turn of events.

“Aye, Your Grace, apologies,” Lord Manderly slurred. “The North stands _with_ you, not _on_ you,” he guffawed loudly, and the crowd around Jon broke into more laughter. He saw Sansa standing off to the side of them, tall and regal, her demeanor patient as she indulged them their shenanigans. She stepped forward to speak, and the group of revelers hushed to hear her.

“You mean you stand _behind_ him, Lord Manderly. Jon is a king now. And the King needs his sleep.”

“Of course, my lady,” Manderly agreed, and the men started to back away, bowing and bidding them good night. Davos stood next to him, a look of pride on his face that warmed Jon. He put his hand on Jon’s shoulder.

“Aye, you do look like you could use a good long rest. We’ve got lots to begin in the morning. You can finish laying out your plans before your guests leave. We can finally get things _dohn_ , now.” He bowed to Sansa. “Good night, my lady.” Davos tossed his nod towards Jon. “Will you be carrying this one up on your shoulder then?”

Jon smirked, feeling a bit dizzy but enjoying the sensation, the wind captured in his hair and buffering a curl to his cheek. “Aye, I don’t doubt that she could,” he joked, but Sansa only hinted at a small smile to denote that she’d heard him, watching him with interest. Guards stood at either side of the arch and bowed their heads to them both. “Your Grace. M'lady.” It was a strange address that Jon could barely wrap his head around. He was a King.

Sansa came up next to him and scooped her arm through his, pulling him close to her as they made their way to the stairs. “Better hold tight to me, brother. I don’t want you plummeting to your death already.”

“I’m fine,” he said. He’d had a bit too much ale in the celebrating, but no more than he’d had in the past. However, sleep was another matter and Jon’s body had been giving him signals in the last hour that it was going to need more than a quick nod as refresher this time. Already, the lights of the stars ran together, forming streams across the sky.

“Yes, of course,” Sansa said patiently. “But let’s walk up the stairs together anyway.”

Jon went up at a steady pace with her, his body heavy against hers, but not weaving or stumbling as he expected. He had enough wits about him to get up the first flight without issue, but as they began the hike up to the family’s floor, he put out a hand to the stone ledge that followed them up. Light busied in front of him as they entered the first hall, the flames from the torches elongated and whirling together across their path.

“I’ll escort you to your room,” he said, his throat scratchy making his voice rough. He’d done a lot of talking this evening, gaining assurances from his bannermen as the goodwill flowed.

“You’re joking, right?’ Sansa asked in that dismissive way that suggested she found his words ridiculous. “You won’t make two steps to your bedchambers before you keel over.”

“Sansa, I’m not drunk,” he insisted. “I know what I’m doing.” He just needed some sleep and he would be fine. There was another meet planned for the next afternoon.

“In the last four days, you’ve hardly eaten, you’ve barely slept, and now you’ve spent the entire night drinking until you can no longer stand. Don’t tell me you’re fine.”

He sighed in exasperation, too tired to argue with her. But that little bubble of cheer was still effervescent in his chest as he thought of his new title. He was a king. Not even his father had been king. He remembered that feeling of achievement when he’d been elected Lord Commander, even though he had expressed to Sam that he didn’t want it. Jon’s grin tapered down to a hard line as he recalled how that one ended up. This had to be better. Their very survival depended on it. The North had no idea of the magnitude of what was coming for them. Jon had to be the one to guide them.

Abruptly they stopped, and Jon realized they were in front of his door. Two guards stood at attention on either side of it. He’d never had guards posted outside of his door before. The celebration had only been going on nigh a few hours, why were there guards posted already?

“Your Grace, mi'lady,” one of them nodded. He reached over to open the door for him and Sansa. “Will you be needin’ anything else tonight, Your Grace?”

“We can manage, Gareth,” his sister said. They started inside, Jon still leaning heavily against her, when she stepped back. “And make sure his Grace is not disturbed until the cock crows tomorrow. He needs his rest.”

“Yes, Lady Sansa.” The guards took their orders with more nods. Jon walked towards his desk, disentangling himself from Sansa to move away from her, but then catching himself when he stumbled briefly. He reached for the straps of his cloak to peel it off, but was having some difficulty, not finding the edges in his grasp.

“Here, let me help.” His sister was there again in front of him, her face mere inches from his as she unhooked a strap from one side of his shoulder, pulling the rest of the heavy cloak over his head. He felt like a small boy, the way she fussed about him, as if he were an incompetent and not a man who had just been called the King of the North. All the bloody North. He chafed against her meddling when she started to unbuckle his leathers.

“Sansa! I am a man grown! I can undress myself, thank you.”

“Are you sure about that?” She waved a gloved hand to his shoulder where his brigandine was clasped. “Go on then, let’s see you try it.”

Jon swiped at his shoulder, trying to locate the buckle, but kept missing. The light in the room seemed brighter than usual, the sound of the fire a roar from behind them like a great ocean swell. “I’ll get Hollis,” he tried.

“Let the boy sleep. I can do it.” She went back to work as if the matter was settled.

But Jon was too giddy to remain bothered. It was as if his head had been filled with air and it was floating along the ceiling. He kept blinking his eyes, trying to clear away the strange colors and shadows appearing in his vision.

“Sansa, you need to _stop_ – _”_ He cut himself off, the irony hitting him.

Sansa’s eyebrows knit together as she began working on the other buckle. “I need to stop what?” she asked, sensing he had more to say.

He started to giggle. Sansa looked at him oddly. “I was going to say you need to stop mothering me,” he answered. Jon began laughing again, his shoulders shaking as he felt the ridiculousness of his statement wash over him.

“Why are you laughing?” His sister wrinkled her nose with a frown.

“Because I have no idea what that actually feels like, so it seemed rather silly to say,” he explained. Sansa’s hands stopped what they were doing for a moment and she looked at him, her expression unreadable.

“It’s not too bad, really,” Jon decided with a long sigh. There were worse things than having someone around who wanted to take care of you. “I think I might like it.”

“Oh, gods, you really are drunk, aren’t you?” Sansa’s hands had gone to his sides, where she began deftly unfastening the remaining buckles.

“Am I?” It didn’t feel like being drunk. It felt like being nothing at all. He felt as wispy as the winds outside. _I am a King_ , he thought again with some awe, trying to live in the weight of that fact. It didn’t feel real. Sansa bent her head down to see to her task and the fire in the hearth behind her suddenly grew brighter, the flames elongating again, tongues leaping out of the stone to land on his sister’s copper hair. Jon studied the top of her head, the flames entwining with her tresses, making them burn. He reached out to pat at them, extinguish them, but they were somehow a part of her. He ran his hand down the back of her head, needing to feel her solidity to ground him. Sansa snapped up her head with widened eyes and stared at him for a moment. She put a hand to his arm, patting it a few times.

“Put your arms out,” she instructed and Jon did as he was told, letting her take the armor off and then she followed the removal by unlacing the ties of his gambeson underneath. Jon glanced to the corner of his chambers, a figure in his periphery. A child sat on the mantle of the hearth, hunched over as if ready to leap off into the air. It grinned wickedly at him, half its face eaten away, the teeth in its skull peeled back giving it a macabre merriment. One blue eye gleamed, the other an empty socket. Its chest was a hole, the ribs showing through tattered, weathered flesh. Jon sighed and looked away.

“You grew quiet,” his sister noted. “What’s going on in that mind of yours, brother?”

“Don’t you mean, your Grace,” he rumbled in an attempt at being kingly. Then he began to laugh again. She smacked him in the stomach.

“I’m serious. What are you thinking?”

He heard Edd screaming at him, the wind a roaring whistle in his ears as they tried to flee Hardhome.

“We’re all going to die here,” he intoned, then began to laugh louder. He felt it in his chest, the giggles coming up into his throat like fermented milk.

Sansa stopped her fiddling again and watched him, her brow furrowed. “You’re starting to worry me now,” she said quietly.

“I’m fine,” he responded immediately, the words a necessary mantra for him as much as for anyone else.

“They’ll carve that on your gravestone, Jon, if you’re not careful.” Jon found that hilarious and his laughs came freely and deliriously, as he watched the wraith clinging to the walls, moving like a spider in scuttering motions, the child's grin feral. His sister lifted his gambeson over his head and the loose shirt he wore under it rode up over his abdomen, bunching at his chest, and he was quick to pull it down, not wanting to upset Sansa again.

“You desperately need to get some sleep. I need you sharp tomorrow.” Sansa took his hand and led him to his bed. She looked down at it and then to him, an approval in her countenance. “Lucky for us you gained a bed. A nice big one, I see.”

“Ghost needs a lot of room,” he chuckled, the laughter finally dwindling down in him, as if someone had turned down a flame in a lantern. Sansa pushed at his hip and he sat down upon his mattress hard. She knelt before him, reaching for his boot. Jon made an exasperated noise in his throat.

“Again with the boots? Why must you always tend to my boots?” he demanded to know. His sister so often confounded him. She was a lady, not his handmaiden.

Sansa looked up at him, a determined light in her eyes. “I’m proud of you, you know,” she said suddenly. “You’ll make a good king, Jon.”

“Do you believe that?” he questioned. He wondered what his sister had hoped for.

She slid off a boot, her gaze downwards, but nodded firmly. “Yes. I do.” Her voice sounded sad. Jon let out a long breath, sighing deeply as he let his body fall back, the exhaustion like another person inside of him. He felt her tugging at his other boot, but the sensation felt so far away. Jon let her do what she would, he had no power against her. His sad, lost sister.

Jon turned his head and saw them clustered there, on the other side of his closet. He recognized them all: Shireen, her body blackened from a fire, her hair burned away, the greyscale from her cheek covering what remained of her face; Olly, his face blue, tongue lolling out of his mouth; and with them his sister and brother. They looked as they did when he’d last seen them, although a distant part of his mind that still possessed reason knew they were much older now. But their eyes were blue and glowing, their flesh bleached and decayed with holes growing ever larger in them. The children stood in judgment, silent, watching him. Jon turned away from them, a pain in his heart.

“You need to move in the other direction,” his sister’s voice suddenly rang into the room with its sharpness, commanding and sure. He felt her grab his hand to pull him. Jon closed his eyes and shifted to where she wanted him to go, feeling his legs rise up on soft bedding, felt himself melt into the mattress underneath him, like molten ore in Mikken’s fires. He closed his eyes, willing the cold that ate through him away. He didn’t want to think on dead children tonight. Wanted them out of his dreams. He recalled a time he was happy, summoning Ygritte’s face before him. Jon smiled, let a long breath out of his mouth from deep within his body, the room fading, everything fading, until he felt the warm sunshine on his face, felt the solid rock at his back. And there was Ygritte, her eyes warm and loving, her passion like fire. Her freckles, so many freckles like stars, and her fierceness shone in the moment. Hair brushed his cheek and he took hold of it, felt the strands of her red hair so soft in his hands.

“If we die, we die,” Ygritte told him, and he felt her love wash over him, felt a part of her.

“But first we’ll live,” he whispered.

A mouth was on his. Jon felt her lips again, the way she’d pressed herself to him, so unbridled and free. He opened his mouth to hers, the way he had a hundred times. Her hand touched his neck, and then her tongue was there, too. Jon captured it, pressed his own tongue to hers, gripping her hair and keeping her close. He needed to hold on to this. He heard himself moan as their kiss deepened, the tongue now hard and probing and he rose up to meet her passion, to live in that warmth. It spread through him, melting the ice in him away. Then suddenly the mouth was gone, Ygritte was gone, the room was cold. Sleep invaded him, eyes shutting in a row of mirrors, a thousand eyes far and wide.

“Sleep well, Jon,” he heard his sister say from a hundred leagues away.

He did as he was commanded. Jon slept like the dead.

* * *

He woke, eyes opening to the dark.

A child sat on his bed. Olly. His mouth was pursed tight, damning, angry, the rope gone at his neck but the strips of flesh left there flapping as if in a breeze. Eyes blue pins that glowed. His body was gutted, as if wild animals had eaten his innards, but Jon knew with certainty that they had burned the boy’s body. Jon had watched it burn. He’d torched the pyre himself.

Jon closed his eyes, still weary, but feeling a stronger sense of himself. When he opened them a second time, the room was cold and empty, filled with a bluish glow from the moon at his window. He was alone. Or so he thought. Jon felt a weight on his chest, pressing him down. He couldn’t move.

“Ghost,” he rumbled into the dark, a flickering glow in the corner of his eye from what remained of his fire in the hearth. “Get off the bed.”

The animal didn’t move. But Ghost rarely sat on his chest. Jon let his head fall to the side and looked to the hearth.

Ghost was laying there, his head up, watching his master inquisitively. Jon frowned.

He looked down and his body jerked in surprise, his shock waking him up completely. A bare arm lay across his chest. Jon looked to his left and saw the glossy shine of red hair on the other side of him, the color perceptible even in the dark. He turned back to Ghost, accusing, wondering when the animal had come to his room –if Sansa had allowed him in or if Ghost had brought her to him. “Thanks a lot,” he muttered to his friend. Ghost simply quirked an ear.

“Sansa,” he whispered harshly into the dark. She didn’t stir. He looked down at her arm again, annoyed now. What was she doing in here? He noticed that her arm was naked, his eyes followed the length of it to her shoulder where he could make out the white lace nightgown she wore, sleeves absent. He saw marks on the flesh there, a smattering of dark criss crosses that looked like shadows. She was asleep atop the covers, her body molded to his side. Sansa must have left him and come back later, he reasoned.

“Sansa,” he hissed, much more sharply now. She whined in her sleep, tossing her head to the other side, but not moving her body from its spot. It reminded him of how Arya would whine when she was being a brat, and Jon’s irritation sprang up. She complained that he treated her like a child, but then here she was, as if he should coddle her. He wasn’t about to carry her to her room. He nudged at her to wake her, tired of this game. “Sansa, wake up!”

Finally, Sansa moved, but only to turn her body away from his, clutching at his pillow as she remained asleep. “Go away,” he heard her mumble under her breath.

Jon’s mouth dropped open in bewilderment. What was he supposed to do with her? He looked forward gritting his teeth, jaw clenching, not relishing listening to her whinge petulantly once he kicked her out of bed. Jon slid off the mattress slowly and quietly, dropping to his haunches as he touched the floor. He stood up and grabbed his pillow, bringing it with him as he marched to the hearth. Ghost regarded him with curiosity. “Go on then,” he told him, waving a hand towards the bed. “You deal with her. I need the space.” Ghost quickly stood up and cantered over to where Sansa slept. He leapt up on the bed and laid his head towards the top of it, his snout resting on his paws, red eyes glancing back at his master hoping for approval. Jon saw his sister roll back to her other side, her arm now flung across Ghost’s back. She’d likely get a mouthful of fur for her troubles.

He dropped his pillow to the ground, the furs in front of the hearth warm under his feet, retaining the body heat from his wolf, at least. Jon grabbed a piece of wood for the fire, stoking the pile with a poker until it snapped at him, the flames coming back to life. It was cold in the room, and he wore only his shirt and breeches, but he didn’t feel like dragging down his cape as a cover. He knelt down and then lay his body on the ground, resting on his back with his head at his pillow. So this was how a king slept, then, he mused bitterly. Jon folded his hands over his chest and thought of the evening’s marked turn, how the lords in the hall had been so in need of his forgiveness. The way the young Lyanna Mormont had shamed grown men, had set the tone for the rest of them to respond with some backbone. It didn’t matter anymore what had happened in the past. They all needed to look forward now. He felt renewed with a vigorous spirit as he thought on the words he had for them in the morning, practicing bits of his speech in his head.

A strange noise in the room made him pause. He turned his head, attuned, and listened for it to come again.

There it was - a low bark.

Jon sat up from where he lay, his arms behind him with hands pressed to the ground. He stared at Ghost and Ghost stared back at him. He heard the bark again, but Ghost had moved not.

Jon stood up fast, his curiosity turned quickly to concern. He walked closer to the bed and stood over the direwolf and his sister. She hadn’t moved, still clutching the beast with her arm. “Ruuuff,” she barked again softly into Ghost’s fur, eyes closed. Jon stood staring hard for another moment, not sure if this was real or not. But he felt fine, his wits about him at last. He watched for another minute, his body tensed, but Sansa stayed silent. It was the most uncanny thing he’d ever seen.

Jon took in a long breath and looked around the room. He couldn’t go back to sleep now, he was completely awake. Might as well get some work done. Jon went to his desk and grabbed a long match to light the lamp there. He had a stack of books on the floor still to peruse for whatever information might help them. He picked up another heavy one from the top of the stack, its gilded florid lettering looking promising, and set it upon the table, ready to read into the dawn.

Twenty minutes into a chapter, Jon was startled by a piercing scream. His eyes darted up in a panic, seeing his sister sitting up in his bed, her terror profuse.

“They’re eating me! They’re eating me!!” she screamed. There were sudden poundings on the door as Jon bolted across the room.

“Your Grace! Is everything all right?!”

Sansa screamed again, her sobs thick. “Get them off, get them off of me!” she screamed, her pitch rising higher each time as her hands swatted viciously at the air at whatever attacked her. Jon ran to his sister to calm her, taking hold of an arm to bring her back to her senses. He called to his men.

“It’s alright! I’ve got it!” But what did he have? Sansa was sobbing hysterically now, her eyes filled with complete horror. “Stop them, Jon,” she cried to him, her anguish a high, plaintive note that scared him. This wasn’t like Sansa at all. Jon went to put an arm around her and she grabbed him, her arms locking around his neck tightly. Her hair was in his face and he patted it down for the second time of the evening. “It’s alright,” he soothed. “It’s just a dream.” He suddenly remembered the night before, when he’d startled awake and Sansa was there doing the same for him. “I’ve got you, nothing’s eating you,” he cooed to her. His sister cried into his neck, her tears soaking his skin, and he rubbed at her back. “ _Shhhh, shhh, shhh_ ,” he breathed through his teeth, beginning to rock her.

“Make them go away,” she cried brokenly. Then she was crawling into his lap and Jon sat back in surprise, his shock growing, as his sister hiked up her nightgown and wrapped her legs around him as well. He sat there stiffly, having no idea what to do next, Sansa clinging to him like a beetle to a reed of grass in the breeze. Her body shook still and Jon instinctively held her tighter.

“Sansa, you’re all right now,” he urged. “I want to help you. What do you need?”

But Sansa had finally quieted, Jon feeling the tufts of her breath slowing on his skin. “Do you want me to have them bring you up some warm milk from the kitchen?” he asked, feeling foolish as soon as he said it. Warm milk would not chase away his sister’s monsters. He sat there with her like that for another minute, trying to determine what he should do next. She should be in her bed, he decided. Jon stood up, Sansa not changing her hold on him to conform to this new position at all. She was still wrapped around him, and Jon held his hands open for a second, beseeching the gods for an answer. This was madness. With a huff, he slipped his hands under her bottom, holding her in place so he could walk to his door. It had to be done. He couldn’t leave her in his quarters. Sansa was a tall girl, and heavy, but she lay her head to his shoulder and sighed, still not letting him go.

“Your Grace?!” one of his guards exclaimed upon seeing the two of them as Jon opened his door.

“When did my sister come back to my room?” he asked without preamble.

“The Lady Sansa arrived over an hour ago, Your Grace,” Willem explained. “She said she needed to speak with you.”

“In the middle of the night?” he asked sharply. He reined in his anger. It wasn’t their fault. He looked to the hallway, imagining the long walk to her bedchambers with his sister attached to him the entire way. “Willem, can you collect Lady Sansa’s robe from my bed and follow me to her room, please. She had a bad nightmare,” he explained awkwardly, feeling the loss of privacy for them both in the moment.

“Aye, your Grace,” his guard said with a nod, disappearing into Jon’s chambers.

“The Lady Sansa left shortly after I arrived, correct?” he asked Gareth while they stood there waiting. “And then came back?”

“Yes, Your Grace. She had your direwolf with her.” Jon nodded once, still holding his sister under her bum as if she were all of one and ten again. Willem came out and Jon called for Ghost, the direwolf joining them as he walked in the direction of Sansa’s bedchambers. She had gone completely quiet now and he started to wonder if she’d fallen asleep. He sighed wearily, but marched forward with her, resolute, Sansa’s feet locked and bouncing against the small of his back. Jon felt torn – he wanted to help her, he did, but these episodes were becoming too frequent and he had no understanding of her behaviour. A young lady had no business sleeping in her big brother’s room, even if she was a widow. His father would have balked at such a thing. He winced inside as he thought of Sansa’s mother. Lady Catelyn would be horrified.

When they arrived, he had Willem open her door. He went in, saw the fire still raging. Her sheets were dragged across the bed. Ghost came up behind him.

“Ghost, stay with Sansa tonight,” he told him, and the great beast bounded onto her bed, laying down at one side. Jon brought Sansa to the other side closest to the fire, facing her door. He shifted his hands so he could cradle her, laying her down gently. Sansa instantly curled into herself, her hand sliding under her pillow. Jon went to pull up her sheets so he could tuck her in, when he saw something dark lying there, cast aside. He went to reach for it, curious. It was a gold candlestick holder. Jon was flummoxed, not understanding what it was doing in her bed. It wasn’t very large, perhaps as long as his hand, the base a small disc for it to rest on while the stem was thick and plain, the nub at the top encasing the spike to hold the wax. The top of it glistened as though smeared with an oil, and as Jon picked it up to move it, he realized it was slick still, coated with a warm wetness. Knowing raced through him as a fire in a cave, and he dropped it as if it burned, his face immediately hot. Jon shot a glance at Sansa, his brow now furrowed deeply. He heard Willem come up behind him and Jon quickly scooped up the instrument to slide under a pillow.

“Her robe, Your Grace,” the guard said. Jon nodded and let the boy place it on the end of her bed before he went back out. The entire scene was unseemly. Sansa would be mortified to know the guards had seen her this way. Especially with how she’d been treated under Ramsay’s rule. He finished putting the covers over his sister and put a hand to her head, stroking her hair. He resolved to be more attentive to her. This couldn’t continue. Jon was about to walk away when Sansa’s hand shot out to grab his wrist.

“Are they back in the kennels, Jon?” she asked in earnest, a tremble in her voice and her nose sounding stopped up from her crying.

“Yes,” he said instantly, still not sure what she had seen. He knelt down beside her bed so he could see her face. “They are. Locked away.” It seemed to soothe her and Sansa’s eyes closed again.

“Good,” she said before letting him go.

“Ghost will watch over you,” he cooed to her, brushing a hand over her hair. “I have a guard outside. And I’m nearby if you need me. No one will hurt you.”

Sansa only sighed, the gust of breath that left her sounding relieved. He stayed like that for a moment, on his knees by her bed, until he heard her breathing normally again, Sansa seeming to have fallen asleep. Jon glanced at the top of her bare arm again, now bathed with firelight. He saw the crosses in more detail now, saw that they weren’t shadows at all but had been dug into her skin. He clenched his jaw, his anger alight for a second as he wished again that he could have killed Ramsay himself with his bare hands. Alas, it was done now, Bolton no more than bones. Jon reached over and kissed her forehead. He looked up to Ghost with an unspoken order and the wolf lolled its tongue in answer.

Jon stood up and went outside, closing her door softly behind him. Willem stood at attention.

“I want you at her door for the rest of the night,” he ordered. “Let me know immediately if my sister has another nightmare, if she has any troubles at all.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” It was odd. Suddenly, the words didn’t sound so strange anymore.

He was about to leave when he paused, turning back to the guard.

“Willem, my sister … she is unwell. Her time here with Ramsay Bolton has left its marks on her. I don’t want anyone hearing about what happened tonight, you understand?”

The guard absorbed the request seriously, answering in kind. “Yes, of course, Your Grace. No one will know.”

Jon nodded to him. “Thank you, Willem. Come and report to me when the Lady Sansa has left in the morn to break her fast.”

He started back to his bedchambers. The dawn would be here shortly and he had much to prepare for his address. He had a fervent hope that Sansa would feel herself again when they faced the Northern lords, and he rubbed a hand tiredly over his face as he thought of the potential reception to their plans. Jon came to a sharp stop, his nose suddenly filled with the lingering smell of his sister’s pleasure still on his skin. He choked on the breath stuck in his throat, quickly rubbing the hand to his shirt in the hopes of removing the evidence. It was hard enough that he had to be faced with his sister’s rape continually, this he didn’t know what to do with at all. Jon carried on to his room with determined steps. Whatever his sister was going through, he had to find some way to help her. This couldn’t continue.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of rape and abuse
> 
> Loads of dialogue from the show in this one, as it heavily references two scenes in S7x01. Credit to Benioff and Weiss.

**v.**

“Dragonglass kills white walkers; it’s more valuable to us than gold. We need to find it, we need to mine it. We need to make weapons from it.”

Her brother carried on with his speech as Sansa sat by him, sat next to her king. Jon – crowned King in the North – her brother. She still didn’t know how to feel about that. Would Jon wear a crown? That didn’t seem like him. She listened to him express his orders, half her thoughts on the hall, the other half on all that had happened last night.

“You expect me to put a _spear_ in my granddaughter’s hand?” Lord Glover’s voice came through as he rose to stand in disbelief.

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake_ , Sansa thought, wishing she could roll her eyes. The man had just begged for Jon’s forgiveness the night before. But her expression remained blank, inscrutable. They wouldn’t know where her thoughts lie, no one would. Glover would remain a problem and he needed to be handled. Surely Jon could see that? But her brother was too forgiving. She thought distantly of the way he held her, after her nightmare, the way he’d carried her to her bed; strong, chivalrous Jon. He just couldn’t help himself, could he?

She watched little Lady Mormont put the man in his place, and sent a knowing glance to Brienne, who smiled back at her. That little girl would rule them all one day.

And what of her thoughts on Jon? Sansa tried to will away the shame of it. How his tongue had felt in her mouth when she’d kissed him, his fist around her hair. How she had welcomed it; needed it, even. She looked up to Jon again as he spoke, recalling how she’d run to her room after, how frantically impatient she’d been for her handmaidens to remove her furs, her boots, her dress. They never took off her smock. That she left for herself, no matter how they looked to each other when she bid them to leave. But once they’d gone, Sansa had removed it in exchange for her nightgown and had left her smallclothes in the pile. Sansa swallowed thickly as Jon spoke to Tormund Giantsbane, requesting they guard the Wall at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. She thought of her hands on her body, how she’d wished they’d been Jon’s, and Sansa shifted in her seat, her face like stone. She heard her grunts and whines in her head as she’d rubbed at herself, nightgown hiked up above her thighs, desperate for a release, how it hadn’t worked, how even the candlestick holder she’d snatched from the kitchens hadn’t worked. She closed her eyes for a moment, the shame threatening to overwhelm her. But then she heard Lord Royce talking.

“The Umbers and the Karstarks betrayed the North. Their castles should be torn down with not a stone left standing,” he declared pompously. Although a bit over-dramatic, he did have a point.

Sansa finally jumped into the debate, needing to get out of her head. This was something she had considered. At least she had her brother’s ear now.

“The castles committed no crimes,” she pointed out with some patience. “And we need every fortress we have for the war to come.” She spoke with assurance, knowing her brother would agree. “We should give the Last Hearth and the Karhold to new families, loyal families who supported us against Ramsay,” she said, now looking to Jon as she laid out her reasons. Let them be punished for their betrayal. Everyone needed to know that House Stark would not stand for it.

“The Umbers and the Karstarks have fought beside the Starks for centuries,” her brother began, looking grave. “They’ve kept faith for generation after generation.” Sansa couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“And then they broke faith,” she argued, as if it hadn’t been plain as day. She felt her brother’s hands wrapped about her from last night, felt his hands under her arse as he’d marched them to her rooms, as if she were a child, and her, wanting to rut against her brother, wanting to press her sex against his stomach as her nightmare clung to her. It was embarrassing. She listened as Jon responded with his usual pragmatism, but she was tired of it. Those families needed to pay.

“So there’s no punishment for treason and no reward for loyalty?” Sansa challenged, feeling for a moment as if Jon had betrayed her. A silence settled in the Great Hall as everyone looked to them both. Jon paused for a tense moment, looking down as he prepared to answer her. When his eyes turned to hers, she saw his anger flash in them for a second.

“The punishment for treason is death,” he stated sharply, brooking no further debate. “Smalljon Umber died on the field of battle. Harrold Karstark _died_ on the field of battle.” His expression grew stormier and something snapped in her again, something brittle and taut, her anger surging. She was the Lady of Winterfell, not a child.

“They died fighting for Ramsay,” she reminded him. Her rapist. Her tormentor. “Give the castles to the men of the families who died fighting for you.” _I saved you_ , she thought to herself. Once again, she felt a betrayal at work that she didn’t understand. Thumps on the benches and a growing chorus of agreement sounded through the hall. She had them on her side and she glared at Jon to see if he understood that.

Jon took in her words with a small humorless nod, before casting his gaze over the hall of their bannermen. _His_ bannermen.

“When I was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch,” he began. So he was going to address that, then. “I executed men who betrayed me. I executed men who refused to follow orders –” Sansa felt her body grow cold. Was that a threat? But he spoke of Father, he spoke of his own leadership. How could Sansa compete?

“And I will not take a family home away from a family it has belonged to for centuries,” he ended passionately. “ _That_ is my decision, and my decision is _final_.” Jon looked down at Sansa to make sure she understood, his eyes burning into hers, and Sansa finally turned away. It was mortifying. Her face felt hot, and she thought again of her actions in the night, how she had craved her brother’s attention then. How she’d wanted him to – Sansa closed her eyes as Jon called Ned Umber and Alys Karstark to the fore, to stand before them all. When she opened her eyes, she saw them as if for the first time. They were children, really. Jon entreated them to commit to House Stark and they drew their swords and kneeled before him.

“Stand,” Jon said, and a chill went through Sansa.

The children stood, with eyes wide and trusting.

“Yesterday’s wars don’t matter anymore. The North needs to band together. All the _living_ North.” Sansa looked at Jon again. He spoke like a King, and her flesh stippled to hear him, hearing her filthy mutterings into her empty room as she’d imagined him on top of her. “Will you stand beside me, Ned and Alys, now and always?”

“Now and always,” they intoned, and Sansa could see in their faces that they would do anything for her brother now, he had them forever. She heard the crowd of them cheer and bang in support. They followed him. And she was just a dirty, filthy girl, one who fucked herself into delirium to thoughts of her brother’s body. She felt Littlefinger’s eyes on her and it only made her shame grow. The disappointment she had in herself, in Jon, was crushing.

After the meet was over, many of the lords stood around Jon, discussions continuing with their faith renewed; impressed by him, she could see. Even if they didn’t agree with him, they admired his words. He listened to them patiently, nodding his head as they raised their own points, eager to be heard as they jostled closer to him like children waiting for their father’s notice. Littlefinger was still stuck to the wall, watching her from afar, and Sansa felt as if he knew somehow, knew what she’d been doing, that it was written on her face. It made her stand straighter, shoulders like steel and her hands clasped in front of her as she waited for Jon to be finished, ready to be the dutiful sister who escorted him everywhere.

Jon glanced over to her at one point, a question in his eyes, and Sansa kept her expression flat, shifting her gaze quickly to Lord Royce. She didn’t want to give him anything, it felt too dangerous. She didn’t want to be on her own, either, as it would only provide an opening for Lord Baelish to come and spout more of his fodder and slip doubt within her. She had enough of her own.

Sansa heard herself again, begging into the dark of her room. Legs open wide towards the hearth as she feverishly thrust the object in and out of her body. It didn’t matter if it hurt her. Ramsay hurt her all the time; she’d toughened herself against it. The objects he used had terrified her, though. _We need to loosen you up. Get you ready for me, so you can stop being a frigid bitch_. Her screams didn’t matter to him. But Jon … Jon would never hurt her like that. She thought of his lips on hers again, how soft and yielding, the way he’d opened himself to her, a rose blooming in the morning light. And she’d wanted to take that trust from him, wanted to pluck it from her brother like an eye from its socket. Sansa thought of the things Ramsay forced her do, thought of what it would feel like doing them to Jon, and she knew then that she was wicked, because she wanted to bend him to her, wanted to see her brother – a king now – lose himself to her, thrusting wildly for her the way he thrust into that red witch.

And yet, Sansa wanted to protect her brother, too. She pictured the wounds on his body again, as she had a hundred times since seeing them. He had to be careful. Littlefinger was waiting for Jon to make a mistake. They all were. She needed to make Jon understand that.

The gathering in the hall finally began to make its way to the outside, Brienne coming to stand nearby with a frown on her face as she brought her focus back on Sansa. But Sansa stood waiting for Jon. When he finally walked over, she expected him to be churlish with her, yet he only smiled wistfully, holding out an arm for her to take.

“Shall we go for a walk?” he asked, his voice pleasant and inviting.

“Are you giving me a command?” Sansa retorted, holding herself stiff but taking his arm anyway. Jon worried his brow, his instant look of concern only making her angrier. She didn’t like being manipulated. She thought of the way he had soothed her after putting her in her bed the night before, how she had ached for him between her legs, and she wondered how he might have reacted if she’d taken his hand and put it there, let him feel what he’d done to her.

“I thought we should talk,” he said more seriously.

“Then I guess we shall.” Sansa let her brother lead her outside into the snow.

* * *

“It wasn’t particularly fair of you, to attack me out of nowhere like that,” Jon had begun, getting right to it. He couldn’t help it, but he was hurt by her belligerence at the meeting. After all that he’d done for her in the night, that she would speak to him like that on his first address to their people felt like a punch in the gut. What did she expect from him? “You could have prepared me.”

“There was nothing to prepare. I didn’t know what would come from their mouths. I do have my own mind, you know.” She stomped behind him as they made their way up the stairs to the walkway. “I’m your sister, not a wife. I get to have a say as much as you.” They turned the corner to take a view of the courtyard below.

“You are my sister but I am king now,” he attempted to explain with some patience. He was sensitive to the fact that she’d had a rough night, her aggressiveness at the assembly more than likely a result of it.

“Will you start wearing a crown?” she quipped.

“When you question my decisions in front of the other lords and ladies, you undermine me.”

“So, we can’t question your decisions anymore?” Sansa shot back.

“Of course you can! But –”

“Joffrey never let anyone question his authority, you think he was a good king?” she cut in, haughty and defiant.

Jon was stunned. He gaped at her, disbelieving that she’d make such a comparison. “You think I’m Joffrey?” he asked with some shock. How could she think such a thing after the talks they shared? Did she see him as another enemy now?

But Sansa softened as she watched him, seeming to realize her harshness. “You’re as far from Joffrey as anyone I’ve ever met,” she said tenderly. Relief swept over Jon.

“Thank you.” He surveyed the work happening below them. His sister’s moods continued to baffle him.

Sansa smiled to him, warm and honeyed. “You’re good at this, you know.”

“At what?”

“At ruling,” she said, changing her temperament. But Jon didn’t want to play her games.

“No,” he said, hoping to end the discussion.

“You are.”

He glanced at her in doubt before looking away. “ _You are_ ,” she persisted. He studied her again, wanting to believe her, wanting to see her sincerity there.

“They respect you, they really do, but you have to –” Jon could see her motivation clearly now. He laughed at her as he scanned the courtyard again.

“Why are you laughing?” his sister wanted to know, and Jon moved on, her following as they toured the rest of the grounds.

“What did Father used to say? Everything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit,” he remembered fondly.

“He never said that to me.”

Of course Father would never curse in front of his girls, he was an honorable man, and Jon told her as much. Sansa took it as another opportunity to complain that no one could protect her anymore. “So stop trying,” she added, but Jon was stymied. How was he supposed to stop protecting her when she was waking up in his room screaming? Why was she even coming to his bedchambers? Yet Jon knew that whatever tormented her, he needed her support. He needed them together. He would make a deal with her if he had to.

“Alright, I’ll stop trying to protect you and you stop trying to undermine me,” he offered.

“I’m not trying to undermine you!” Sansa suddenly grabbed at his wrist and pulled him to face her. He glanced at her hand where she gripped him, reminded of the night before when her hand snatched out to him. _Are they back in the kennels, Jon?_ Sansa grabbed him a lot, lately. It was too familiar, he thought, a smell in his nose making him suck in a breath.

“You have to be smarter than Father. You need to be smarter than Robb. I loved them, I miss them, but they made stupid mistakes and they both lost their heads for it.” Sansa said this to him as if Jon wasn’t intimately aware of the cost to be had when making mistakes. Although he’d never think of his choices as mistakes. He’d done what he thought was right and he stood by those choices. If he had to be murdered a thousand times, he’d still make them again.

“And how should I be smarter? By listening to you?” His troubled little sister.

She gave him a look of long suffering. “Would that be so terrible?” she asked plainly. Jon wasn’t so sure how to answer her.

Thankfully, he didn’t need to as Maester Wolkan strode up just then, bearing a message from the capital. Jon broke the seal and read the terse angry missive from Cersei. Just one more headache. Sansa demanded to know what it said and he recited aloud for her, leaving out some key bits. They argued about her as the two of them made their way to the battlements. Sansa was adamant that Cersei was just as big a threat as the Night King, but Jon found the Lannister woman the least of his concerns.

“She’ll never stop until she’s destroyed you. Everyone who’s ever crossed her she’s found a way to murder,” Sansa implored him. There was a gleam in her eye there that unsettled Jon.

“You almost sound as if you admire her,” he said, imagining his sister standing at the kennel gate, watching her husband devoured. A bloodlust had been unleashed in Sansa and it troubled him.

Sansa looked to the south from where they stood, pensive and bitter. “I learned a great deal from her.”

He took his sister’s hand and clutched it, feeling her warmth through their gloves. “We’re not like them, Sansa. There’s nothing good to be learned from a woman like that.”

But she only sighed with impatience. “You don’t know her. Nor understand her. She can hurt you.”

Jon held up the scroll again and read aloud the part he’d left out. “ _And you will deliver your murdering whore bitch sister to be executed, or die_ ”, he finished. He locked eyes with Sansa, trying to make her see that he would always protect her, no matter how many times she demanded he stop. “What can’t I understand about that?” he asked flatly. “I know all that’s worth knowing about Cersei Lannister.”

He saw something flash in his sister’s eyes, a fear that let her vulnerability peek through her steely exterior. Jon squeezed her hand tighter and suddenly Sansa pulled him into a hug, her arms wrapping about him and her hand pressed to the back of his head. “Just promise me you’ll be careful, Jon,” she whispered into his ear. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t,” he assured her and Sansa hugged him tighter.

******

Jon walked up into the Maester’s turret, giving a soft knock at the door before entering where Wolkan kept to his work. The room was as cluttered as he’d remembered it when Maester Luwin was here, from the many trips Jon would take up the tower to help after lessons. Books stacked so high it was a wonder they hadn’t toppled over, scrolls piled on top of each other to build their own wall. The man was at his desk, but got up quickly and bowed his head. “Your Grace.” The maester went to bend his knee.

Jon waved him up to put him at ease. It was strange how he intuitively dropped into these kingly gestures, mimicking Stannis in some respects.

“What can I do for you, Your Grace? You should have sent for me, you didn’t have to come all the way up here,” Wolkan smiled.

“I wanted to have a word in private. I’d like to talk with you about a matter that concerns me.”

The maester’s open expression quickly turned to one of inquisitiveness. “Of course, Your Grace. How may I be of service?”

Jon was suddenly unsure on how to begin. “You were … here with the Boltons for some time, correct?” he asked, the man nodding affirmatively. “I imagine you saw many … horrible things. Distasteful. Ramsay was a sadistic man, after all.”

“I did, Your Grace. I witnessed Lord Bolton murder his father. I … took care of Walda Bolton during her pregnancy. I delivered her baby,” Wolkan shared, his face folding into a sick horror.

“And my sister?” Jon rushed, not sure he wanted to hear the answer but knowing he must.

Wolkan looked to him with some fear. “Your sister? I … did not spend much time with the Lady Sansa, Your Grace.” He cast his eyes to the floor. “But we often heard her at night.”

Jon swallowed hard, the sounds of Sansa’s terrified screams ringing in his head. “So you never …” it was hard for him to say it, but he soldiered through. “You never examined her? I know Ramsay hurt my sister very badly. Did he not let you tend to her?”

“Lady Stark was kept to her room most days,” Wolkan explained. “I know Theon Greyjoy was allowed to visit her, but when she was let out of her room she was always accompanied by Bolton or one of his men.”

“And now?” Jon needed to know if Sansa had been here, at least. “Has she asked for your help?”

Wolkan looked hesitant. “Your sister has come by once, the day after you took the castle. She asked for a potion to assist with her … her pains.”

Jon nodded. He was comforted by the knowledge. “And did she … did she seem alright?” There were folds in Wolkan’s forehead as he contemplated his king’s question. “Her mental state?” Jon felt unclean having to pry into his sister’s private affairs this way, to ask about her body, her mind. But she was his responsibility and he would take care of her, regardless of how she fought him. “She seems to be having trouble sleeping. Did she mention it? Or any other ailments?”

“No, Your Grace. Lady Stark was quite specific about what she came for.” He looked to the floor again. “As for her temperament, I would say she was without emotion. I sensed she had put the unpleasantness behind her. Your sister is a strong woman.”

“Aye,” Jon agreed. “That she is. Thank you, Maester Wolkan. That was all I had to enquire about.” He turned to leave but paused, clenching his jaw as he thought of Sansa shivering in his arms again. “If she does seek you out – if she comes back, I would like to hear of it, please.” He glanced back to the maester, again feeling as if he was conspiring against his sister but needing to understand what was happening to her. “Whatever it may be.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” The unspoken demand for secrecy made clear. Jon felt a sudden need to explain himself.

“I fear that the things my sister has suffered here have affected her in ways that she may not yet realize. That she’s not allowing herself to … to heal, I suppose. Have you ever … have you had cause to aid a woman who’s gone through such an experience?”

“No, Your Grace, I’m afraid I don’t possess any empirical knowledge with which to advise you in this matter. But perhaps Lady Stark just needs some time? To distance herself from it?”

Jon was starting to doubt that this was going to be an effective solution for Sansa. But he nodded and thanked the man again, taking his leave to make his way down the spiral steps.

* * *

“Why on earth are you in here?” Sansa asked him upon entering his room.

It was well after supper, but the night still early enough. Jon sat at his desk scribbling out many scrolls to be delivered by the ravens in the morning. He needed to ensure that everyone present at the meeting would begin their work according to plan. There had been plenty more shaking of hands and deep conversations at the dinner feast as many of their guests prepared to head back to their homes, to begin preparations for the long winter and its encroaching storm.

“I’ve work to do,” Jon answered. “Where should I be?”

“Why haven’t you taken Father’s solar?” she questioned, waving towards another room beyond his walls. “You’re the King. Surely you don’t plan on conducting state affairs from your bedchambers?”

“Sansa,” he started, already exasperated. But she had a good point. “Fine. I’ll start with that tomorrow. I’ll need somewhere to discuss our next bit of business, anyway. We need to concern ourselves with the dwindling supply of food. While Bolton’s stores were full enough for a long siege, still, the feasts cost us. We need to think ahead, when rations will become necessary. Winter is here.”

Sansa had already made herself comfortable on his bed, and Jon paused in his writing, slyly watching her settle as she shucked off her short boots and tucked her hosed feet underneath her bottom, hands spread on his covers. She still wore her dress from earlier, the heavy ring at her chest. Jon wondered at the message it was meant to convey. Did she still feel shackled?

“Brienne was quite relieved to see your ginger friend be on his way. I think his rather overt attention on her makes her uneasy. I assured her Eastwatch-by-the-Sea was quite far.”

But Jon wasn’t sending Tormund and his clan on a fun-filled adventure and he bristled at her lightheartedness. “It’s a dangerous mission that I asked of him. Tormund won’t see his daughters for months and he might not come back to them. Have some respect for that.”

Sansa sat up straighter, her eyes narrowing. “I do,” she stated.

Jon huffed as he poured wax on the scroll he’d just finished. He pressed it with the Stark seal, a bit of wonder in him to see the imprint. “What do you want, Sansa?” he asked tiredly.

She looked affronted as he fixed his gaze to her expectantly. “What? I can’t come to talk to my brother, suddenly?”

“After last night, I would think you would want to turn in early.” He raised an eyebrow. They hadn’t discussed her nightmare yet. “You’re not tired?”

“No,” she said, a terse note. She looked down to where her knees bent, her legs stretching behind her across his bed and her weight resting on one hand. “I’m not ready to go to sleep yet.”

Jon put aside his scroll to sit with the others and leaned back into his chair, regarding her. He pursed his lips as he contemplated her mood tonight. Her tetchiness from this morning had seemingly abated. “Sansa, you know I am always here for you. But –”

“I thought you said everything before the word ‘but’ is horseshit,” his sister repeated instantly.

He chuckled at the reminder, feeling the tenseness in him loosen. “Fine. I’ll be clear then. You can’t simply come to my bedchambers and … let yourself in my bed at night, Sansa, you understand that, right?”

“Why not?” she asked baldly.

“Because?” Now she was just being intentionally dim. “I’m your brother. And I’m the King now. It’s not proper.”

She played with the stitching in the skirt of her dress. “I was upset,” she said quietly, not looking to him. “I needed to feel safe.”

“So then wake me up next time. I would have let you sleep here while I moved to the floor. Or I could have sat with you in your bedchambers until you fell asleep.” His irritation fell away and a tenderness in him returned. Jon wanted his sister to feel safe with him more than anything.

“I didn’t think waking you was an option. You were quite delirious while we talked and then you were out cold. You needed your rest, Jon. You work yourself too hard.” She glanced up at him coquettishly and Jon felt a strange pull in his gut to see it there, a hint of a smile at the corner of her lips. “You should let me take care of you, instead of getting cross.”

“I wasn’t cross,” he reminded her. “I was concerned.”

“Is there a difference with you?” She grinned slyly at him.

He chuckled again, aware of that he could be tetchy, too. “I suppose I deserve that.” He looked at her stone-faced. “This might come as a shock to you, Sansa. But you can be quite annoying.”

Sansa only grinned harder, her eyebrows flying to her forehead. “ _I’m_ annoying?” she crowed. But her tone was affectionate. He opened another scroll to begin writing. “You should stop your work, and come talk to me,” she said invitingly, patting the patch of his bed in front of her.

“I can talk to you from here,” he returned. “And write at the same time.”

“I can be your secretary if you need,” she offered, and Jon glanced up in surprise. “You can dictate them to me and I’ll write them for you. My handwriting is better.”

“I think I can manage, thank you,” he said, imagining how Sansa might change his words as she penned them. It felt wrong of him to think that and he frowned. “Although I am used to Sam doing this,” he admitted. “He has a gift for words.”

“Did you have a lot of friends at the Wall?” she asked out of nowhere. “Other than Samwell Tarly?” Jon looked up from his letter, considering that he’d not seen Sansa with anyone other than Brienne and Baelish since their reunion.

“Aye, I did,” he said. “For a while. But many of them died. We lost a lot of brothers fighting the Freefolk. Now, it’s just Sam and Edd, a few other men I trust.” He shrugged. “Not a lot of them liked me when I first got there.”

Sansa seemed surprised. “But everyone likes you.”

“I think my belly would disagree,” Jon countered drolly.

His sister stared at him hard for few moments, making him uncomfortable. He went back to his letter. “What did it feel like?” she asked.

Jon looked up again, distracted. “What did what feel like?”

“The blades.” Sansa’s eyes grew large. “How did they feel going in? Did you feel them all?”

Jon dropped his pen into its inkpot. “Sansa, I don’t really want to have this conversation.”

“But it must have been so … strange. Feeling your life leave you.”

“Sansa,” he said sharply. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He thought of his sister in King’s Landing, all alone after their father was killed and Arya disappeared. “What about you? Did you have any friends while living in the Red Keep?” It must have been so frightening for her, but surely she had someone to talk to besides Cersei?

“I suppose,” she mulled. “Shae. Margaery, for a bit. Maybe the Hound.”

It was Jon’s turn to be surprised and he laughed. “The Hound? Your _friend_? Go on, pull the other one.” But she seemed completely serious. “So what is that experience like, then? Having The Hound as a friend?”

Sansa was lost to her thoughts, however. “He looked out for me. He called me Little Bird.”

That didn’t sit well with Jon and he frowned at the thought. “Why?”

Sansa shrugged. “I don’t know. Because it was great sport for everyone to bat me around with their paws?” She gave him a shrewd look. “Cersei like to call me her little dove. At least you don’t give me stupid names.” Jon didn’t find either amusing.

“He saved me once. I had to go to the docks with the king’s family to see the Princess Myrcella off when they shipped her to Dorne. Myrcella was so upset. Tommen cried.” Sansa wrinkled her nose, staring at the bedcovers as if she could see it all unfold in front of her. “That was the last time I ever saw her. But on the way back to the Keep, there was a disturbance. A mob broke out and everything went to chaos. It was complete madness. They ripped the Septon’s arm right from his body. I got separated from the guards, and then there were these men. They chased me, down the alleys, until I didn’t know where I was. One of them grabbed me and then I was pushed to the ground, they held my arms and spread my legs, tore at my clothes. I screamed and cried, but they didn’t care. They just wanted to hurt me. Shae said it was because my horse was fed better than their children, but that’s not how they looked at me. They hated me, and they wanted to take something from me.”

Jon had gone still, watching her; no longer shocked by such stories, but feeling an ache in his chest for all that his sister had been through. He stayed quiet, letting her tell it in her own way.

“And then, one of _them_ screamed. The one on top of me was yanked up and turned around. The Hound gutted him; I could see his innards hanging like meat. He killed the rest of them, too. It was over like that. Then the Hound carried me over his shoulder and took me back to Joffrey. The little monster was still screaming, his face like a turnip. Joffrey didn’t care what happened to me. He was just mad they threw horseshit at him.”

“I’m grateful the Hound was there for you,” Jon told her, “that he protected you when the rest of us couldn’t.” Robb had been fighting a war. And he’d been living with the Freefolk as a spy, a traitor. He shuddered to think what Arya had gone through being on her own, and wondered again if there was the slightest chance that she was alive. But Sansa had been abandoned by the men in her family, surrounded by lions who wanted to tear her to pieces. Once again, Jon felt a great weight and disappointment in himself that he’d failed her.

“He wanted me to go with him,” Sansa continued, her voice far away. “When the battle raged, the Blackwater turned flaming green by wildfire, he came to my room to take me away. But I stayed. I always stay.”

“You didn’t stay here. You came to find me,” he offered, his letter writing long dismissed. “You’re more resourceful than you think.”

Sansa raised her eyes to him and smiled. “Yes, running for your life into the snow and through a freezing river, quite resourceful.”

“But that wasn’t my point,” he smiled back. “So the Hound is a good friend to have, I’ll remember that. And what about the other ones?” He knew what the Hound had wanted from his sister and hoped he’d never come across him.

“Who? Lady Margaery? She was wonderful. I’m sorry she’s dead.” Her eyes found her brother again, a knowing look there with another secretive smile. “She would have liked you.” Jon wasn’t sure what that meant. “And her brother, of course. He was nice. I think _he_ might have liked you, too. He seemed excited about my wedding dress.”

Jon kept a straight face. There had been plenty of sniggering about the Knight of the Flowers at the Night’s Watch. “Was he?” he asked politely.

Sansa raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think he … cared for girls. Tyrion said something about Renly’s preference for buggery once and Margaery said her first husband and Loras were very close.” She narrowed her gaze. “You know what that is, right?”

Jon almost choked. “Um … yes, Sansa. I was surrounded by men in a brotherhood sworn to celibacy. I have heard of it.” Why did she think him so dense?

Sansa’s cheeks burned brighter. “Yes, I suppose. Brienne didn’t think much of many of your Night’s Watch brothers. She said they broke their vows all the time, that the brothel in Mole’s Town was full of them.” Her eyes widened. “But she only knew because of Podrick.”

“I broke my vow, too,” he said.

“But you were in love,” she protested. “That was different.”

He smiled, remembering Maester Aemon’s words on that. _If we beheaded every ranger who lay with a girl, the_ _Wall would be manned by headless men_. “I don’t think that mattered.”

She stretched her legs all the way out and lay on her side, resting her head on her hand as she looked hard at Jon. “I miss Shae.”

Jon leaned all the way back in his chair, getting comfortable, deciding that his letters could wait. “And who was Shae?”

“My handmaiden.” She smirked at Jon. “She was fierce, too. I trusted her with my life. She probably would have cut any man’s throat who threatened me.”

“Oh, I definitely would have liked her,” Jon commented with a grin.

Sansa’s face agreed. “You would have. But I think Lord Tyrion was … well, he tried to pretend that they didn’t know each other but it was obvious he loved her. I don’t think Shae had ever been a handmaiden before. She was pretty terrible at it. I believe Tyrion might have met her … well, Shae seemed to know what men liked, if you understand me.”

Jon wrinkled his brow. He didn’t want to ask too many questions about his sister’s first husband. “And you were alright with that?”

Sansa seemed to comprehend immediately what he was driving at. “We never had sex. Tyrion refused the bedding ceremony, thank the gods. He even threatened Joffrey over it. He said that he’d wait until I asked him into my bed, but … I didn’t really want to. Not with him, anyway.”

He didn’t know how to feel about that. That his sister lost her virtue to Ramsay seemed even crueler. “You don’t have to tell me this, Sansa.”

“I want to,” she said quickly, sitting up again. “I like talking to you. It’s quite easy. I didn’t expect that.”

“And what _did_ you expect?” he challenged, wanting to change the topic. “Does this mean, then, you can come and talk to me about your ideas on political strategy in private next time? Instead of undermining me in front of everyone?”

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Gods, are you still going on about that?” But she looked away from him, a shyness stealing over her.

“Do you still disagree with me?”

“No,” she said sullenly. “Ned Umber thinks you’re the greatest thing since dragons now.” She raised her eyes to him again. “It was smart.”

It pleased Jon that he’d won her over. “Thank you.”

“I agree that children adore you. But it’s the adults I worry about. Glover’s still being difficult. And Lord Royce may follow Lord Baelish, but we need him here.” She sat all the way up, finally getting off his bed to stand. “You need to woo them. Make them feel special.”

“Should I bring a dowry?” he asked sarcastically. “Put flowers in my hair?”

But she smiled secretively as she walked closer to his desk. “I don’t think you need to do that,” she said. “Davos said some of the lords find you quite pretty already.”

“Very funny,” he responded, but Sansa stood by him now, reaching down to tousle his hair.

“I suppose I can see why,” she grinned. “Your pretty curls.”

“Stop,” he said. But she leaned over to untie the knot on the back of his head. “Sansa, what are you doing?”

“I have something I wanted to show you,” she told him, pulling his hair free. “I need to be able to see the full effect.”

“What is it now?” Jon watched her pull something from her sleeve, a piece of parchment tucked there that she opened up from its folded quarters. She handed him another drawing. “Sansa? What are you doing?” It was a sketch of a crown, the tines like branches.

“You’re a king now. You’ll need one.”

“Didn’t you just make a joke of me this morning over wearing a crown? I don’t want it.”

“But you should. Remind them who they’re talking to.” She put her hand through his hair again and he caught her wrist to stop her.

“Sansa, if I can’t lead the North, a circle of iron on my head won’t change that.” He stood up to face her, folding the drawing up again to hand it back. “I don’t need symbols of power. I’m trying to lead them to safety… to the rest of their life. And the lives of their children. Whatever enables me to fulfill that, I’ll do.” He cupped Sansa’s cheek, hoping to convey his intentions enough to make her listen. “It’s not like the capital here. We are a strong, proud people. We have to be. Everyone in the North, they are my responsibility now. I serve _them_. But I’ve seen things that they’ve only ever imagined. I know what we’re about to face while they live in the dark. This isn’t just another battle. This is _the_ battle. I have to be their protector, too. I make my decisions based on what will keep us all alive.”

Sansa’s eyes were wide, her mouth grim. He didn’t know if she had understood his priorities any better, but he felt reinvigorated, connected to her. Sansa put her hands to either side of his face, a mirror to him.

“I believe in you, Jon. You are a good king. I know you’re honourable and good and that you’ll do anything for us. Anything for me.”

“I would,” Jon agreed swiftly, his hand still to her cheek. He rubbed a thumb along the bone.

Sansa’s eyes glistened, as if holding back tears, and Jon thought of her troubles, of her nightmares. He would do anything to protect his sister, to help her be whole again. She leaned down to kiss him, her hands still holding his face.

When she pressed her mouth to his, Jon felt surprise, felt his eyebrows knit together. He knew his sister was in a delicate state, that she needed companionship. He didn’t want to embarrass her. And so he held himself still, waiting for her to back away. But she didn’t. Sansa kept her mouth on his, pressing harder, her intent clear. He sucked in air to pull back and suddenly felt a tongue on his lips. Jon jerked away from her with a start, his back hitting the wall. Immediately, he looked down to the floor, his body going rigid.

“Sansa,” he gasped. “You should – it’s time for bed. You’re … tired. I need to finish my work.” His face burned. He didn’t know what to do with this.

“Oh,” she said softly. “Of course. I’m … sorry, Jon. For keeping you up.” She finally moved away and Jon could suddenly breathe. She turned to pick up her shoes from the stones, not even putting them on. “I’ll leave you now,” she finished, eyes averted as she marched straight to the door. She left without a look back. As soon as he heard the door close, Jon gasped for air, leaning over to press his fingers to his desk in an attempt to hold himself up. The situation with his sister was not getting any better.

When he stood up, he put his fingers to his lips, as if he could feel the imprint of her there still. What was she doing? What did she want from him? She was confused, certainly, misplacing his affections.

Jon felt cold. His gut twisted in knots. There was something wrong here and he didn’t know how to fix it. A knock came at the door and Jon worried for a second that Sansa had returned.

“Yes?” he called. The door opened and Hollis stepped inside.

“Will you be needin’ anything else, Your Grace? Before you retire?”

Jon shivered again. “Yes. Send up the bath and some hot water."


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of rape and abuse, and a big helping of dubcon.
> 
> My thanks once again to firesign for being such a great sounding board on so much of my rambling thoughts. Her continued insight and concrit has been invaluable.

**vi.**

Sansa came down the steps that took her outside with leaden feet, her nerves aflutter in her belly like great warring butterflies sprouting ephemeral wings to beat against her insides. She’d had another hard time of it during the night. The filthy thoughts in her head after leaving Jon’s room had only grown tenfold, lurid and dreamlike. Thoughts of her brother’s mouth on her body, on her breasts, all the places where Ramsay had hurt her. Even now, her skin warmed remembering hazy snatches of those images she’d created, how they had blurred into memories of what her monster had inflicted. That she’d attempted to pleasure herself again in her parents’ bed only sickened Sansa more. It was a small consolation that she had yet to reach her release. She walked across the courtyard as the winds picked up and pulled her furs closer to her chest. She wore her hair down but Mhaegen had plaited some of it to wreath around her head, Sansa wanting to have it fashioned into something simple. She thought of the elaborate ways she used to style her hair back in King’s Landing, mimicking the ladies of court, and the recollection only irritated her. She was her own person now, no matter how filthy she may be.

Arriving in the Great Hall, she worried for a moment that she’d only embarrass herself when she sat with Jon. Her eyes went straight to the head table, where her brother sat in deep conversation with Ser Davos and another older man she’d met only once before, in a sweeping introduction with many other soldiers. He had a bald pate but a thick beard, flecked with grey. Sansa took a deep breath and let her legs move her, feeling more resolved the closer she got to Jon. He looked in her direction once then quickly looked away, not stopping his discourse with the men who sat with him. His hair was pulled back in its tidy knot, tendrils hanging loose to brush against his neck. He wore his leathers this morning without his cloak, back to being a battle commander instead of a king.

When she walked up to the table, they all stood. Sansa rounded the end of it and came over to their huddle, to stand by her brother. But while Jon faced towards her, he did not look upon her, his eyes slid to a point in space that she couldn’t discern. The men greeted her and she nodded, moving closer to Jon so she could lean over to peck a kiss on his cheek, if only to prove to herself that she could do so without issue. His body went stiff but he held himself there, looking off to his two companions.

“Good morning, brother,” she muttered to Jon. She turned to Davos and the other men. “Good morning, gentlemen. I hope I didn’t interrupt any important business you had with the king.”

“Not at all, my lady. Just talking of the training. And how are you this morning?” Davos inquired.

“I’m very well, thank you. I had some thoughts on the training, as well, if I could sit in.”

But Jon interrupted. “We can discuss it later at the council meet. I’m off to see the builders. Ser Donnar, please allow me to introduce you to my sister, Lady Stark of Winterfell.” He extended a hand towards Sansa, speaking to her but not looking at her. “Sansa, this is Ser Donnar Rane. I’ve appointed him as our new Master-of-Arms. I want our training to begin promptly, as soon as we can make space for it in the yard.”

“Oh,” Sansa said in surprise. She hadn’t spoken to Jon about Brienne yet. “I’m sure Ser Donnar will need as many qualified hands to help as he can,” she said, nodding to him as he bowed his head to her. “We have many here at Winterfell to train, but there are those in Winter Town who should also be included. That’s a lot of people for one man.”

“Aye, we have a plan for that,” Davos added. “But I’ll let the king be on his way. Jon, do you need us to follow?”

Sansa pursed her lips, annoyed that she was left out of these decisions once again. She would have words for Jon at the meeting later that afternoon. He obviously was not in the mood for her presence, his demeanor all but screaming his discomfort. Jon had the men stay while he marched off, and Sansa glanced to his plate noticing that it still carried plenty of food. She sighed and sat down, Davos sitting with her, while Ser Donnar bid them a good day. Sansa began to pick at Jon’s leftover meal. No need to waste it.

“He seems a bit tense this morning,” Davos commented while she nibbled, his gaze far off to where Jon had left.

“Isn’t that his usual state?” Sansa retorted, partially relieved that she didn’t have to face the awkwardness of sitting with Jon while visions of her debased imaginings sprang in her mind, yet still bothered that he’d left her.

“Aye, but tis usually more like concerned, than … I don’t know, he’s jittery,” Davos said. “He told me he slept well.”

“And you believed him?” What was Ser Davos expecting her to say?

“I usually do. I don’t know, maybe its nothing. My lady, have you seen Jon – eh, never mind. I guess I’m overly sensitive, being rather familiar with moody sovereigns.”

But Sansa turned to him, curious. “Have I seen Jon what?”

Davos looked hesitant to speak further, but saw her expression and sighed. “Your brother … I had not known him long before – well, before what happened, happened. Stannis saw something in him. Admired him, even. I know he watched him often, saw the way Jon was with the men. I saw it, too. He has a … a presence, you could say, one that separates him from the rest of us. He still does, but there’s a change in him. Subtle, but there. I wonder sometimes if bringing him back, if there are some residual _effects_. Jon likes to pretend that none of that matters. But it does.” He rubbed under his beard. “Have you _nohticed_ changes in his behavior, my lady?”

“Perhaps,” she offered, knowing the truth of it. “But how could he not be different. He was murdered. Jon isn’t about to forget that.”

“No, I don’t think he can. But he’ll try.”

It occurred to Sansa that she’d never asked Davos before about the details of Jon’s return. She knew he’d witnessed it himself.

“Ser Davos,” she set her fork down and gave him a hard look. “What was he like? When he … when he was revived?”

Davos gazed out over the guests dining and took a deep breath, his eyes searching. “In shock, for most of it. As if he were reliving it. He didn’t know where he was at first, trembling like a newborn foal. And I think he grieved for himself. For something he’d been. He was concerned that he’d failed. Said he wasn’t supposed to be here.”

Sansa tried to imagine it – Jon pulled from the unknown, his terror at feeling the blades again. “And how was he after that? The next day? He seemed … recovered to me when we first talked.”

“I think your brother has a gift for putting those thoughts away and doing what needs to be done. He went right out and hanged the men who killed him, including his young steward. I believe he felt a particularly deep betrayal by that one. It shook him. It's why he wanted to leave.”

Sansa thought of her argument with Jon, when she’d needed him to join her, to help her take their home back from Ramsay. _I hanged a boy, younger than Bran._

“I’ll keep a watch on my brother, Ser Davos,” she said, an urge arising to have her hands on Jon soon. But those thoughts were disgusting so she turned back to her food, thinking instead of the hounds chewing on Ramsay’s flesh. Rather than acting as a comfort, however, she was reminded of her nightmare and she shuddered.

“I don’t doubt you will, my lady. I’ll leave you to break your fast and I’ll see you at the council.” He stood to leave and Sansa looked up to see Lord Baelish on his way to her. She dropped her fork again, and drank the remainder of Jon’s ale, readying herself.

But it was later at the council that Sansa started to feel that brittle edge return. Jon still wouldn’t face her directly, and when she brought up the notion of having Lady Brienne handle squads of trainers, she was met with resistance.

“Lady Brienne is your sworn shield,” Jon reminded her, his focus on the huge map spread across the table in his office. “Her responsibility is to you. To protect _you_. She can’t do that if she’s training the townsfolk all day.”

“And you think that’s a full time job? Standing by my side with her sword at the ready to ward off – what? Our servants?”

“Ser Donnar has commanded soldiers for decades. He’s survived over a dozen battles. His experience is equal to anyone in the Queens Guard. We’re lucky to have him.”

“But he’s so old,” Sansa argued. “And you want someone to train the children. Wouldn’t a fighter like Brienne be a better option? She has far more energy, and she’s someone for the young girls to look up to.”

“ _Sansa_ – ”Jon started off harshly, his anger quick to ignite, but he stopped himself, his jaw clenched tightly. Davos stood watching them both quietly, hands behind his back and not attempting to mediate. Sansa decided they needed more voices on their council. She would be sure to bring Brienne with her next time. She’d bring Baelish if she had to.

“So what about Captain of the Guard?” she tried. “Or have you already gone and chosen someone for that, as well?”

“So now you want Lady Brienne as the Captain of the Guard? With even more responsibility? Are you listening to yourself?” Jon looked as though he was ready to dig in his heels for this one, and Sansa grew frustrated.

“I was thinking of Lord Royce. He is a good commander, and he needs something to do while we wait for … for this army of dead to show up, however long that takes. I still think Cersei’s forces are likely to get here first.”

“But he takes his orders from his liege lord,” Davos inserted. “He’s not of the North.”

“Neither are you,” she added, not unkindly.

“Sansa!” Jon blasted, his irritation no longer masked as he finally looked at her. “What do you want? To run our armies now?!”

“Perhaps I should leave –” Davos started but Jon cut him off.

“No! We’re done here. I have to meet with the blacksmith, and then I have to see Tormund and his men off before they leave for Eastwatch. I’ll see you this evening. In the meantime, I’ll have Ser Donnar go and speak with Lady Brienne, to see where she can help.” His gaze trailed off to a corner of the room, his head nodding to Sansa. “Is that acceptable?”

“Fine,” Sansa said, her tone sullen. Jon left the room in a few quick strides, leaving the door open. Davos looked to her with a raise of his eyebrows.

“That was productive.” He bent his head. “My lady.” Davos left to do whatever he did and Sansa stood in place, stewing in her thoughts. Jon frustrated her, yet there was still a part of her that was happy to have her brother engaged with her, at the very least. It felt safer arguing with him than contemplating the way his mouth pouted when he was angry.

When Sansa made her way to the walkway overlooking the courtyard, she saw Brienne at practice with Podrick, her squire. Her thoughts were still on Jon when Baelish strolled over to her, his manner obsequious but Sansa no longer affected by his display of concern. He began to speak and Sansa stared hard to the action below, her thoughts back on her dream. The way the hounds tore at her. And the way Jon held her, his hands traveling up her leg, over her bum. Why did those thoughts consume her when nothing else could?

But Petyr wouldn’t leave her alone, hovering around her like a fly.

“I want you to be happy. I want you to be safe,” he told her. Sansa wanted that, too. And she knew with whom.

“I am safe. I’m at home surrounded by friends. I have Brienne to protect me from anyone who would harm me,” she said, purposely leaving out Jon. She wouldn’t say his name in front of Petyr. He would sense something, she could feel it.

“What about happy? Why aren’t you happy? What do you want that you do not have?”

Sansa knew the answer to that, too.

* * *

She couldn’t sleep.

Sansa sat in her bed attempting to read through one of the books from the library that she’d swiped from Jon’s stack, but she was only able to follow the pictures, her mind on her brother. They’d managed to avoid each other since the meet in his solar, but Sansa was restless. She didn’t think she could even lie down and pretend to sleep until she’d talked with Jon. Their evenings of reflection had quickly become a ritual for her. Sansa thought of the way he listened to her then, when they weren’t talking of leading the North, and how she needed that, their banter a comfort. It was important for her, that Jon see her, understand her. The things she’d been through felt like a dream when she told them to Jon, as if they’d happened to another person.

She rubbed a hand back and forth under her breast, recalling how Jon had yelled at her that afternoon, and how he’d reacted the night before, but she knew he wouldn’t stay mad at her for long. Sansa needed to see him. Sliding her book off her lap, she left it on the bed as she stood, striding to her vanity to look at herself in the mirror. The mottled glass showed a calm woman staring back at her, the plaits in her hair gone and her tresses long and gleaming from Mhaegen’s brushing. Sansa wore the white smock from under her dress still, the strings at the neck tied in a bow keeping the bodice closed. It was all she wore, her smallclothes discarded. Sansa smiled at her reflection, summoning up whatever charms she could muster. She would put Jon in a good mood. Reaching for her robe, Sansa drew it around her, the fur at her neck giving a certain strength to her appearance. She was a Stark, a wolf as fierce as her brother. No one would ever hurt her again. Sansa walked to her door, with feet bare. When she opened it she stopped to talk with her guard.

“Willem, I’m going to speak with the king. You don’t have to stay here, tonight. I’ll ask him to move your post to elsewhere.”

“Lady Stark, I’m here until the king says otherwise.”

“Well, I’ll return later,” she said, not liking to see him there. It reminded her too much of Ramsay’s guards, of being locked in her prison until one of them would let her out to escort her to their lord.

Arriving at Jon’s room, Sansa saw only Gareth at his door. She would get him his partner back.

“Good evening, Gareth. I’d like to speak with my brother, please. Is he in?”

“Yes, Lady Stark. He said he was expecting you.”

Sansa smiled, pleased by the news, and knocked on the door. “Come in,” she heard. When she stepped through, Jon was at his desk reading. He looked up as she closed the door behind her, his face anticipating another battle of wills. Jon’s hair was loose again; he wore only his long shirt and woolen breeches.

“The answer is no, whatever it is,” he began brusquely, going back to his reading as she wandered over to sit on his bed. Already she felt an ease, wanting to bask in the golden sun of Jon’s attention. She thought of their kiss the night before, wondered if Jon was still thinking of it, too, or if he’d buried it out of his mind.

“I’m not up to arguing anymore today,” she said wearily. She thought of what Davos had told her about Jon’s experience, imagined what it would have been like to see her brother arise if she’d been there with him, to see her gift breathe life once more. She folded her arms across her chest, wrapping her fingers around the tops of them in an attempt to warm her.

“Wonderful, because I’m not, either,” he said with a sigh, looking up from his book again as he scanned her face. He leaned back in his chair to appraise her. “So then … you couldn’t sleep?” His gaze narrowed with suspicion. She shook her head.

“Another nightmare?”

“It’s early still,” Sansa said. “I haven’t yet closed my eyes.” She watched Jon for a moment as he folded up his book, ready to put it aside. Just that small gesture made her heart leap. “I wanted to talk.”

“I thought that you might,” her brother replied softly.

“Will you come sit with me?” she tried.

“I can sit here.” Jon’s eyes were dark as he studied her. Sansa became acutely aware of the way her hands had rubbed at her body during the night and she squeezed her arms tighter.

“I never apologized. For waking you the other night. I’m sure I was a handful.”

“You don’t have to apologize for that, Sansa. As long as you’re alright,” he said.

“It was horrible,” she finally admitted. “The hounds. They were chasing me, until I fell, and then they tore at me, their fangs in the flesh of my legs, on my back. Ripping me open.”

Jon’s features hardened and he sat up straighter. “Ramsay’s dogs?” Sansa nodded her head. “That does sound horrible,” he concurred.

Sansa wondered when the torment would end, if it was even possible. She took notice of Longclaw, her brother’s sword, propped against the wall by his desk. “What happened the first time you killed someone?” she asked on a whim. “I mean, what did it feel like? Was it … satisfying?”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Satisfying?” He seemed perplexed, closing his eyes as he rubbed a few fingers over his forehead. “I don’t know about that. It just … it had to be done.”

“And did you still think about it after?” Sansa was curious now. “Who was it?”

Jon sighed again, looking tired as he folded his hands in a steeple, his elbows on his desk. He leaned his chin on them as he contemplated her questions. “The first man I killed wasn’t really a man anymore. I put my sword through his chest and he took it right out. As if I’d merely scratched him. I had to burn him before he’d die properly.” Sansa raised a brow at that, but Jon was lost to his thoughts. “But the first _living_ man I killed … he was the Halfhand. A legend. It was an honour to range with him.”

“If it was an honour then why did you kill him?”

Jon shook his head, pouting his bottom lip. “He told me to. It was the only way the Freefolk would accept me as one of their own. The Halfhand gave me my mission. He attacked me, so they’d all see it. I didn’t want to, but … then I did it. My sword went clean through him. I remember his face. He was so surprised. As if he’d suddenly realized what he’d asked for.” Jon shrugged. “Sometimes, I can see it still. But mostly, I just don’t think about it.”

That did little to comfort Sansa, however.

“But what about when – ” She stopped and Jon raised his eyes to her, waiting for her to finish. Sansa knew that Jon had to understand somehow. She’d seen what they did to him. “What about the people who hurt you?” She stared into Jon’s eyes. “The men who killed you? Do you think about them, still? Did you feel anything when you hanged them?”

“I felt a lot of things when I hanged them,” Jon said sagely.

“Yes, but … were you happy? That they were dead?”

Jon sat up straight and sighed, his eyes still locked to hers. “Sansa … we shouldn’t talk of these things – “

“But I want to know!” she cried. “I want to know _why_? Why do I still … think about it? He’s dead, I _killed_ him. I watched the hounds eat him! And yet, I feel it … still.”

“Feel what?” Jon asked, guarded.

But Sansa didn’t want to explain with words. “You know,” was all she offered as an answer. She stared down at her hands, how they clutched the sash from her robe, twining it nervously about her fingers. She wanted to crawl into her brother’s bed and leave all her thoughts, all her terror, and her anger, outside of his door.

Perhaps prompted by her reticence, or her outburst, Jon stood up. He stretched at first, pulling his arm over his shoulder, but he lazily made his way to her, sat next to her, and she counted it a victory to feel his weight settle by her side. She watched him reach for her hand, but then quickly pull it back, letting it fall in his lap as he attempted to console her. He let out yet another great sigh.

“Sansa, you can’t expect one act will simply erase the other. It’s not that simple. He can’t hurt you anymore; that’s what’s important. But what he did – the marks he left … perhaps the maester can help? Did he not … give you anything to ease your suffering?”

“He did,” she said, not elaborating. How could she inform those things to her brother? She thought of Jon in his bath, the dawning that came to her when she saw him, saw his body.

“I think that you need to remember that it takes time for our bodies to heal, to feel the way we used to. I went through it, when I was wounded before. The mind will want to forget it, and sometimes it works, but the body … the body always remembers.”

She snapped her head to Jon, her connection to him so strong in the moment. She grabbed hold of his wrist. “Jon, can I stay here with you tonight?”

Jon’s eyes widened at first, before he gently sidled away from her, leaving some space between them. “I don’t – I think that’s a bad idea, Sansa.”

“You said that I could,” she reminded him, stung by the rejection and hearing the hurt in her voice, yet not letting go of him.

He looked away from her, his eyes on the stones of the floor, leaning over with his elbows pressed to his thighs. Jon wiped both hands over his whole face, as if he were trying to keep awake. “If you want to sleep here, you may do so,” he finally said. “I’ll go do my research in the Library tower and let you get your rest. Ghost will watch over you. I’ll leave the guards outside the door.”

“But I want to stay with _you_ ,” she said. “You’re the reason I feel safe here.” With increasing purpose, she pulled her sash loose and put her hands to her shoulders, quick to slip off her robe. She wanted him to know, to understand.

“Sansa,” he shook his head, “I think that you’re … mixing up your thoughts. It’s understandable. I’m not blaming you. But you think I’m someone that – that I’m not.”

“You’re my brother. You’re Jon. I know who you are. And you’re all that I have.” She took hold of his wrist again, wanting him to touch her. “Look at me. I need you to see something.”

“ _Sansa_ –” he started again, still refusing to face her, his tone weary as he dragged out her name. She pulled at the strings at her throat and let her smock fall open. “That’s not true. You have so much. I need you to –”

“Jon,” she tried again, her fingers pulling her smock away from her shoulders, the slit down the front opening wide enough for her to push down her sleeves. She took his hand again. “Jon, look at me.”

Jon finally turned to her, but then bolted up straight, his face instantly whipping away from her. “ _Oh_ _fuck_ ,” he gasped under his breath, ripping his hand out of her grip. “Sansa, what do you think you’re _doing_?” His voice was hoarse and afraid.

“Jon. I need you to see.”

“Sansa, I can’t. Please don’t do this,” he begged.

But she reached out to press a hand to his far cheek, dragging his face towards her. “Jon, I want you to see me.” With her other hand, she grabbed for her brother’s arm, holding him there. Her smock was pushed down to her hips, her shoulders pulled back, cold air on her skin, on her breasts, her stomach and Sansa felt brave and alive, a rush in her blood. “Please.”

His expression was pained as his eyes locked to hers, but Sansa wouldn’t show fear. This was hers to give. Once more, she took hold of his hand. “Do you see?” she asked him. Jon’s eyes dropped down to see all of her, still sick with his misery. But then he stilled, his expression plastered there for a long moment. She saw her brother’s eyes widen, watched the various stages of knowing play across his face: shock at what he was seeing, mouth dropping in his horror, and then finally, Sansa saw with great gratification the rage fill her brother, his jaw tightening as hate saturated his features.

“He did this to you,” Jon growled, a menace deep in his throat.

“He liked to play with me,” Sansa confessed. Slowly, she drew Jon’s hand closer to her, spread his fingers open and placed his palm to rest near her heart, right under her breast. She tracked his fingertip across the wide smile there, no longer red, but the scar purpled, and Jon let her, his gaze fixed on Ramsay’s art across her body. “He said he would slice off my breasts and feed them to his dogs, if I didn’t do what he wanted. That the child I bore him would drink from a wet nurse, so they were of no use to him.” Jon’s eyes flashed to hers, revulsion present there in the curl of his lip, and Sansa felt a wickedness rise in her to see it. How much could her brother stand before he’d turn wild for her? Good, noble Jon.

“If I screamed, he pressed his blade harder.” Jon stared at her body, slid his hand to the next scar below as she spoke, tracing the long lines across her abdomen, from one side to the other, broken up by her tormentor’s whimsy, and a thrill ran through her to watch him. She never knew where Ramsay’s dagger would land next; if she’d suffer the blade or the other end of it. But just having Jon touch them galvanized her in a way she hadn’t expected. She felt a pull in her breasts, her nipples tightening, and it confused her for a moment, her heartbeat pulsing inside of her until it felt triple its size, reverberating through her body right down to where she sat.

“Ramsay said that the gods gave women extra holes for men to take their pleasure even when we bled. That I was a silly girl to think I was any different because I was highborn.”

She watched Jon turn away from her as if he’d been struck, and he sucked in a harsh breath as his gaze was transfixed to the wall. She saw him swallow deeply, watched hypnotized as a fat tear gradually formed on his lashes to drop down onto his cheek. Jon let out a slow gust of breath, knuckling the wetness from his face. “Sansa, please stop,” he said, his voice thick.

Sansa leaned in and pressed her breasts to her brother’s arm, felt his warmth flood her. “Jon, we need each other,” she whispered. He groaned deeply before putting a hand to her waist, gently pushing her back.

“Sansa,” he began, turning to grip her wrist. He tucked her hand into a sleeve and shucked it partially up her arm, before moving to the other side to do the same. His gaze was focused on her arms and his work, avoiding her breasts as he took hold of her smock and pulled it up, dragging it over her shoulders and pulling her bodice closed. He moved slowly as he took hold of the strings and tied them in a bow, making her chaste again. When he was done, he finally looked up to meet her eyes. His sadness clung to him like the cloak that he often wore, in the way he held himself, in every line of his face, and his eyes shone with it.

“I am so, so sorry, Sansa,” he told her, the emotion in his voice hitting her hard. She didn’t understand his reaction.

“Why are you sorry? You didn’t do anything to me.”

“You’re right. I didn’t do anything. I should have gone to you. I should have – I could have done something. I allowed this to happen.”

“But you didn’t know,” she reasoned. Jon’s face crumpled into despair and he clenched his jaw, swallowing again before trying to speak.

“I should have,” he said. “You were here in Winterfell, not half a world away. I was the Lord Commander, consumed with other matters, instead of your safety. I won’t forgive myself for what happened.”

“Don’t,” she said, a bitter note in her voice. This wasn’t about him.

“I want to help you, Sansa, but I don’t know what you want from me.”

But Sansa knew. She knew with certainty that Jon was bound to her, that they shared something most would never experience. Sansa threw her arms around his neck, pulling him to her in a fierce hug.

“Yes, you do,” she hissed in his ear, before drawing back to press her lips to his. A sly desperation rose up in her, a hunger so strong, like a great wave surging. Sansa wanted him to kiss her back. She had shown herself to her brother, the way he had shown himself to her. She wanted to see his body again. But Jon grabbed her by the waist with both hands this time and pushed her away.

“Sansa, stop. You cannot do this.” The timbre of his voice rang strong now and he shook his head, as if he was stumped with what to do with her. “I know things are confusing for you right now. You aren’t responsible for the things you do. I understand that. But this can’t continue. I am your brother, Sansa. This isn’t right.”

“But I know you know what it’s like,” she started, before Jon cut her off.

“I don’t. I can’t begin to comprehend what it was like for you, the horrors he put you through, Sansa. I shouldn’t be the one you say these things to, yet I can appreciate that you need to speak of them.” He paused as he considered his next words. “You should see Maester Wolkan and –“

“Stop throwing me at Maester Wolkan!” she yelled, frustrated with his offers. “The man stood by while Ramsay raped me every night! What will he do for me now?” she demanded, her mouth in a sneer. “He’s useless, just like everyone else is useless.”

Jon stood up, ending their argument before it could begin. “Sansa, you need some rest. I’ll escort you to your room.” A king issuing his command. He held out a hand to her and a great shame filled Sansa as she stared at it, the heat within her like she’d stepped into a fire. But she took hold of her brother and let him pull her to her feet. He reached for her robe and handed it to her. Sansa wanted to slap him, feeling dismissed. Instead, she took her robe and slipped it on, her brother standing there waiting as if he were Father.

He went to take her arm, to lead her back to her bedchambers where she could be locked away, with a guard at her door to keep her in place. “I can make my own way,” she told him coldly.

Sansa left her brother with sure steps, looking over her shoulder before opening the door.

“And I don’t need a guard to watch over me. Please see to it.”

She stormed out of his room and slammed his door behind her.

******

_The hounds were coming._

_Sansa heard them behind her, their baying and snarling, she could feel their breaths at her feet. When she tripped this time, she fell hard on her bed instead of the ground, a heavy weight on top of her. “Wife, you need to shut up before I slice your cunt in two,” Ramsay grated in her ear. She screamed – it came from the depths of her, until her face hurt – but no sound issued forth. Fingers gripped her shoulders and when she looked behind her, those fingers were bones. Ramsay grinned over her, chunks of his face gone; she could see the muscle underneath stretch taut as he laughed. His tongue was gone, a bloody blade in its place, as though someone had stabbed it through the back of his head and it came out his mouth.”My lovely wife,” she heard his rasp, but the noise of ripping flesh filled her ears, growls and screams. Ramsay was pulled off of her, and then she saw another replace him. Jon was behind her, and he reached for her face. “Sansa,” he said, before he groaned, his body jerking violently. He dropped to the snow, at her feet, and she saw the blood pool around him, trailing in rivers that drew branches about his head. “Jon,” she called, but he wouldn’t move. “Jon!”_

“Jon!”

Sansa sat up quickly, her dream fading as she felt her bed underneath her. She listened to the hush in her room, wondering if she’d screamed aloud. But no one knocked, nor came calling for her.

She was sick of this.

Every night, she was awakened. Every night, a need in her grew. She wanted it to end. Sansa was ready to find some relief from her torments. It had been naïve to think it would stop once Ramsay was destroyed, and that it haunted her still seemed a final cruelty from him. Sansa instinctively rubbed under her breast again, recalling what had happened with Jon, the way he’d touched her before pushing her away. Jon was the one who was confused. He thought that he had to be strong for her, but she wanted to be the strong one. She wasn’t a little girl. Sansa was a woman, she knew what men wanted. She’d suffered it.

But what did Jon want?

She got out of bed, stumbling as she extracted herself from her sheets, still half asleep and her thoughts jumbled. It was dark in the room, the fire by the hearth dim again, and she had to feel her way to her chair. Groping for her robe, she stuck herself with the pins from the dress she was in the midst of sewing and swore. Sansa sucked on her finger where the pinprick had drawn blood, the taste of iron in her mouth. Once again, Jon appeared in her mind, and she remembered the way his fingertip had stroked under her breast. She could still feel it living in her skin, a promise held there. Of decency. Of kindness. And of a new sensation – one that didn’t dwell in pain.

Sansa left her robe and made her way to the door. When she opened it, she expected to see Willem there, but no one stood guarding her bedchambers. She was alone. She brushed at her face, the light from the torches bothering her eyes. The corridor was quiet, just the faint wavering flutter of the flames along the stones. Desolation swept up in her. She was home, but she felt like a ghost, moving through an empty castle in a dream. Sansa looked about for the hounds, listening for their snuffling breaths. It was silent still. Not even Ghost came to meet her.

The torches beckoned her, and she followed willingly, knowing they’d bring her to Jon. She wanted to make sure he was alright. The image of him on the ground, blood spilling out of him, disturbed her enough that it was necessary she feel his heart beating, to be assured her brother lived. She had gone to bed angry, but could no longer remember why. Jon needed her. She knew it in her bones.

When she arrived in the corridor leading to his room, she saw the guards up ahead. That she was almost there had her heart beating faster. Sansa wiped at her face again, her hand coming away wet. Had she been crying? She didn’t know anymore. The guards had their heads bent towards each other, talking in whispers, and she instantly thought of Petyr, the king of colluders. Was he nearby? Did he watch her? Sansa stopped to look behind her. The corridor was still empty. She wondered where Jon’s familiar had gone. The beast always came to her. Knew when she needed to see her brother.

As she shuffled closer to the guards, the stones cool under her feet, they suddenly jerked their heads up in surprise, drawing their spears straight.

“Lady Stark!” Gareth exclaimed. “Are you alright? It’s late.” He peered at her as she weaved her way up to the door, feeling groggy still as the light flickered and moved.

“Is my brother alright?” she demanded to know. “I need to see the king.”

“Lady Stark, the king has retired for the night. Everyone in the castle’s asleep. He said he wasn’t to be disturbed. By anyone.” Willem and Gareth shared a quick look, their nervousness apparent.

“Gareth, move aside,” she said. “I need to see him. It’s important.”

“I don’t know, Lady Stark,” Gareth said anxiously. “He was quite specific with his order.”

“I am the Lady of Winterfell and I order you to step aside so I may enter my brother’s chambers.” The guards both bowed to her and stepped to each side of Jon’s door. She didn’t even knock, she just let herself in.

Entering his room, Sansa saw Ghost immediately. He perked his head up and watched her from his place by the fire, its glow filling a corner of the room. Sansa saw the moon was still bright this night and it shone through Jon’s window, painted across him in a wide swath where he slept. She crept in quietly, shuffling on silent feet to the other side of his bed, where he lay closest to the fire. Furs were thrown over him she could see, but his face was still in shadow. She came closer to study him, leaning over as her eyes grew used to the dark. Jon’s arm was flung outward, hanging off the bed, his head lolling on its side, and Sansa could see his chest rise and fall in his slumber. The other arm was curled above his head atop the pillow. But as she stepped nearer to him, Sansa suddenly jolted upright, her hands flying to her mouth to stop the scream rising in her throat.

Jon’s eyes were open and he was looking right at her.

He didn’t move. Didn’t seem to notice her at all. Once Sansa’s heartbeat slowed its furious trot, she came closer, dropping to her knees to sit by him. She had a better view of his chest under the moon’s bright streak, could see Jon was breathing still. Yet his eyes were still staring at her. Unseeing, but open. It unnerved her. He was the very picture of the dead.

Sansa put a hand in front of his face and waved it back and forth, testing to see if his eyes would follow. They didn’t. She got as close as she dared, her face over his. His breaths came rhythmically, measured, and the sound and feel of them put her at ease. She laid her hand over Jon’s eyes, touching her fingers to his eyelids, and drew them closed herself. Jon continued to sleep, undisturbed. Leaning in closer still, she pressed her mouth to his again, the taste of his lips sweet.

Sansa would stay with him. Protect him. Just like Ghost.

Standing, she crawled over his legs and nestled down by his side, as she had the night he’d been crowned king. She had needed to feel safe from the hounds then. She felt bolder now, tucked against him, and she wanted to see them, see what he had shown her before. The moonlight arced across his chest, and Sansa noticed his shoulders were bare above the covers. Jon’s face was so rested. So pure. His lashes were quite long, she realized; she could see their silhouette with the light behind him. Sansa stroked his shoulder, and his skin was like the sun, warm and inviting. A scar peeked above the furs that draped him, its puckered stitching dark against the ghostly whiteness of his flesh. Sansa pulled the fur down to see it better, regarded the way it curved over the space where his heart resided. She drew closer and pressed her ear hesitantly to his chest, heard the steady thumping of his heartbeat filling her head. It comforted her.

When she lifted her face she studied his scar, fingering it softly. She brought her lips to it. The tissue was gnarled where she kissed it, the feel of it bumpy, and she dragged her mouth across Jon’s flesh until it hovered over the dusky disc there just below it. She felt in a daze as she imagined kissing him on such a place. What would her brother say then? _You aren’t responsible for the things you do,_ he had told her. Sansa knew her mind. She knew what she was doing. To take his nipple between her teeth would be a wondrous thing, if only to see the reaction it garnered her. She touched her tongue to it experimentally, and finally, her brother’s breath caught. Sansa froze. He moved his body slightly, as if from a tickle, a light grunt in his throat, but he slept still. It thrilled her to see the power she had over him. Her brother laid out before her. She could kiss his entire body, with soft delicate pressings of her lips, and he would sleep uninterrupted, spirited away in a beautiful dream. That would certainly be better than his nightmares.

Sansa took hold of the fur atop him and dragged it downward carefully, needing to see them. She took the covers as low as she dared, his stomach eventually bared to her. The gashes there under the brightness of the moon shone darkly, appearing more maliciously inflicted than when she’d seen them before. Hesitantly, Sansa put out a finger and stroked one of them, there, just at the top of the defined square that was his abdominal muscle. It had closed, a crusty gruesome seam, but the one between his ribs had not. It still parted slightly, the gash making her think of the ugly things Ramsay had said to her. She wondered what she would taste if she put her tongue there, if Jon would feel it. It had a partner which was placed parallel, as if he’d been attacked by two men at once, but this one had closed thankfully, one wound angrier than the other. Sansa imagined the first came from a particularly vicious stabbing. Who would it have been? Why did they hate her brother so? She held her breath over the palette of his lacerations, rubbing a thumb across the farthest one, now puckered into a swollen nodule. It had been a slimmer blade, she could see, the cut not very wide. What damage had it wrought, what organs had it penetrated, that Jon had withstood, she wondered.

She sat up on her knees and surveyed his body, in awe that he lived after such a declaration of brutality. If Jon could come back from this, she would as well, the message was there contained in his flesh, in his spirit. They were Starks. They could not be broken. Sansa wanted to take Jon’s hand again, feel it warm and alive, but she wouldn’t risk waking him, wouldn’t break the spell. Instead, she counted seven scars as she scanned her way down his abdomen, ending on the one that sat right above a man’s pubis. Her gaze lingered there. Jon was like any other man, she knew. He thrust into a woman with the organ that lay between his legs, there below the covers. She’d seen him do it. And Sansa’s curiosity was piqued. It was so powerful in that moment to think on it, she felt swept up in it, her throat hollow, eyes feeling large enough to break free from her face. When she glanced down to his hip, a great swell of breath rose in her. It was bare. The information came to her in a slow dawning. Jon lie naked, right under her hands. She let her breath out slowly, an attempt to release the wickedness in her that so wanted to act.

Part of her knew she shouldn’t be doing this. It was wrong. Her brother was unaware, however, sleeping like the dead he spent all of his days consumed with. She heard him breathing still, deeply and evenly. It goaded her, and she watched, amazed, as her hand moved in front of her seemingly of its own accord, pulling down the furs, lower and lower. The slant of light left her brother’s lower body in shadow, but Sansa’s eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, and she beheld it there. Saw her brother fully. She dragged the covers off of him completely. Jon didn’t move. His body was a furnace, he wouldn’t be cold, she reasoned.

It sat there, so serene. A dark patch of hair surrounded it. It was just a small piece of meat, really, looking no more threatening than a slug in the gardens of the greenhouse. That it could do so much damage seemed unreal. That her body still bore the shocks of Ramsay’s assaults was a testament, however. She wanted so desperately for that shock to go away. And what balm would soothe her pains? Nothing, of course, would change her disfigurement. She was horrid. Yet, having Jon’s scars close enough for her to touch, she felt that bond with him pull at her again. Jon wouldn’t hurt her. He understood that violence, it was written upon his body.

Holding her breath, Sansa lay her hand upon it. The heat of Jon’s body once again seeped through her skin, warming her palm and her fingers, traveling up her arm. She cupped it, so she could no longer see it, hidden like a mouse under a leaf. She squeezed once, heard her brother suck in a long breath. Sansa stopped, before turning to watch his face. He had rolled his head to her side, his features still hidden, but his breathing quickly returning to normal. She felt it move suddenly under her hand and a great surge went through her, as if an electric storm had lit up the air around her. Sansa sat up straighter, a rod in her back, her breasts tingling. She felt the wetness between her legs, felt the tickle on her thigh as it ran. From beneath her lashes, Sansa watched Jon carefully, studying him for any sign he might wake. His arm still hung off the bed, cast towards the fireplace as if he were reaching back to his people, to bring them over to some safe haven. Her hand gripped him again and she felt him harden, felt him _grow_. Suddenly, she had more to hold on to, her hand sliding to the end of it, the power that hit her as she felt the organ in her hand lengthen filling her with wonder. She was doing this. She controlled this.

Sansa heard her brother muttering and glanced sharply to his face, her hand stilled.

“ _Ygritte_ ,” she heard him whisper under his breath. “ _We can’t_.” He didn’t wake, but slept on, his body spread out before her, completely in her care, and the tension eased from her.

She thought of the way Ramsay would force her hand to hold him, would rip her hair from her head as he forced her mouth on it. Her cheeks felt wet again and she shook her head, tossing those thoughts away. They had no place here. He couldn’t do those things to her anymore. No one could. She would take charge of her own body. Of Jon’s body. Sansa stroked her brother. _Stroke his cock_ , she thought in her head. She knew the words.

Jon’s breathing halted again, a small moan escaping his parted lips, and he shifted under her hand, his legs dropping open as his chest undulated off the bed. “ _That’s nice_ ,” she heard him breathe again. With jerking movements, Sansa grabbed the silk of her smock below her knees, careful not to jostle the bed too much as she hiked her dress up. She bunched it in her hands, pulling the fabric high over her thighs until she could delve her hand between them, feeling how hot and wet she was, felt her pulse there as a twin to the pulse she felt in Jon’s cock, as if it possessed a tiny heart all on its own. A mania was alight in her, something frenzied yet determined. A steady insistence that she was alright here, that she had her brother in her hand, and they were as one. She tugged on him harder, his member now sturdy and strong, the heat scalding her, but she kept on, his skin like silk over hard muscle, making her think of her horse’s coat after a hard ride, and the fingers of her other hand rubbed herself in tandem.

Suddenly, Jon writhed under her, his arse coming off the bed, and he _thrust into her hand,_ hers, and Sansa almost gasped. Jon opened his mouth, emitting a harsh breath, but one of pleasure. “Gods,” he moaned. “Faster.”

Sansa was electrified, the storm inside her opening her mind, an epiphany held there, her brother writhing, needing her. She felt herself close, a looming wave, felt the power of it as it drew back and swelled higher. She bounced on her hand, her fingers going inside her, her other hand still bringing life back to Jon, bringing him to her. He had been destined for her. She knew it surely. Sansa would save him again. Her mouth was open wide, a scream in her ready to be let loose, but she stayed silent, listening to a grunt from Jon as he thrust himself into her hand again.

Then suddenly everything changed.

Jon was moving. His hand grabbed her thigh, and then he was shifting them both, sliding Sansa under him as he turned them over. Her entire body felt paralyzed as her back hit his pillow, every muscle as taut as the strings of a harpsichord as she realized she was wrong. Jon was like all men. He would do what they did. How could she be so stupid?

But Sansa heard him mumbling again. “ _I’m so sorry_ ,” he moaned as he lay below her, his face at her thigh, her smock still scrunched up to her hips. “Please forgive me,” he whispered plaintively. Jon’s eyes were still closed, she could see him in the moon’s waxing light, and the cheeks on his face shone with their wetness. Sansa was mystified.

Then Jon placed a tender kiss on the inside of her thigh. “ _Sorry_ ,” he breathed again, his lips moving lower. “Ygritte, I’m sorry.” He kissed her flesh again. And it was loving and soft, yet so full of grief. “ _Forgive me_ ,” he repeated, kissing her closer to where she had lost herself, where her fingers had furiously rubbed for some blessed release. Sansa felt the tension in her start to ebb away, her arms pressed flat to her breasts, could see with some understanding now that Jon was still in the grip of a dream. That whatever he was doing was nothing like Ramsay’s barbaric notion of sex. When he kissed her there, at her core, Sansa felt a dozen things at once. Shame. Fear. Longing. Awe. Curiosity. They didn’t seem to work together, and her body felt unfamiliar, detached, as she watched in fascination while her brother kissed her again, her legs finally loosening their strain, opening the way his had done for her. She could see enough of his face, and his grief was stamped there, but his devotion, too. He was so worshipful, in the way that he kissed her, as if he was in prayer and she was the heart tree. Sansa had never seen anything like it.

And then she felt his tongue lick her. Her breath caught in her throat, her eyes widening. What was he doing? He did it again, sopping up her arousal as if he were a cat at his bowl of milk. A fist tightened low in her belly, clutched behind her breasts, her nipples hardening. She wanted him to keep doing it. Sansa reached out her hand, tentative at first, afraid to wake him from his dream, but needing to touch him. Her fingers slid into his black hair, she gripped his curls hard, and Jon’s head leaned into her hold, urging her to continue as he kissed her deeper, she could feel his lips pressed to the folds of her sex. And the image of that, of her holding her brother’s head as he sought to pleasure her, his expression so giving, his need so stark as though his very life depended on this, was startling and profound. This was an act of intimacy so indicative to Jon. That he would care for her, instead of worrying about his own release. She watched her hand move again, its own creature now, dragging his head closer to her. Jon let her. He groaned into her cunt. And Sansa felt caught in his dream, watching as she lifted herself up to thrust into his mouth, feeling him take what she gave him, his countenance beatific, and with such gratitude. She felt her arousal spool tighter and she moaned to him in answer.

Jon froze.

There was a moment, just a single second that was held in the air, a sustained note as though from an instrument, the sweet tenor of it growing, before it shattered.

Her brother appeared to throw himself from his bed, scrabbling across the room, his backside crashing against his dresser, and Sansa pulled up her legs from the shock of it, her fists to her mouth. The boom of the furniture slamming into the wall, small trinkets falling to the stone floor, was followed quickly by pounding on the door.

“Your Grace! Is everything alright?!”

Jon stood up in front of the fire, naked and heaving, his face darkened, and for a moment he looked godlike, surrounded by an aura of burnt orange from the flames. Ghost stood behind him, and she heard the beast growl in warning. Its teeth bared. Her brother’s features were molded to his shock – he appeared dazed, his mouth open, pupils so wide that his eyes looked black, she wondered again if he was seeing anything here. She observed he was still hard, the breaths from him fast and shuddering as he stood there.

“Your Grace! Should we come in?”

Finally, Jon found his voice, shaking his head free of his sleep.

“I’m alright,” he called, barely a croak, shaky and scared. He cleared his throat and then said it again, more forcefully, convincing. “It’s alright. Ghost knocked something over.”

He looked away from her then, wiping a hand over his face while sucking in another hard gasp. When he looked back at her, she saw his anger there.

“Don’t move,” he hissed in a whisper. Jon looked down, uttered a sound of disgust, and then looked around for his clothes, spotting them where they lay across his upright trunk. He snapped up his breeches and began to put them on in a hurry.

“Jon,” she started, as if she could explain, but Jon whipped his head up with his eyes wild. He put a finger to his lips and shook his head again.

He dressed quickly, throwing his shirt over his head and ripping the hem down, before grabbing for his boots. When he finally moved towards her, the rage in his face was terrible.

“You need to leave,” he whispered harshly again, a direct order. “When I come back, you _will not_ be here.”

She tucked her legs closer to her, watching in alarm as her brother stormed his way to the door, Ghost following him. It opened towards her, so she couldn’t be seen, and Jon allowed enough space for him and Ghost to leave through, pulling it shut quickly behind him. She could hear him talk to his guards, the tone of his voice normal and calm.

Sansa looked down at her smock. It was still pulled up above her thighs. Cold air brushed between her legs and she was awake, plunged into freezing water. What had she done? What had she destroyed? Jon would feel betrayed, she knew it in her heart.

And yet.

Sansa wished her brother had finished.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: animal cruelty, animal death, mentions of rape and abuse.
> 
> I found myself up ahead by two chapters, so I am posting early. Will see how the midweek traffic goes and whether this gets bumped to the fourth page already.

**.vii**

Sansa heard the hounds again.

They were barking wildly, long howls amidst the ruckus, and then Sansa heard a high sharp yowl that made her stop in her tracks, her head darting towards the kennels. It was quickly followed by another. They were in pain. She went to an open window facing the west side and looked down into the courtyard, scanning the grounds in the direction of the godswood. There were men over the roof of the kennel, arrows in their bows pointed downward. Some of them were dragging out the beasts with the arrows in their bodies. A small pyre was erected before the Library tower; she could see the smoke trailing to the sky. Sansa ran through the hall to make her way out of the Great Keep, to find out the explanation for this.

When she arrived, still running as she gained closer to the kennel gate, she saw another beast being held by two men, and watched in horror as one of them slit the animal’s throat.

“Stop!” she yelled, her feet moving faster. There was a crowd building around the executions, as onlookers from the Guest house had come to watch, standing to the other side of the fire. Davos stood there with arms crossed and he jerked his head in her direction as she ran up, her breaths panting as the dead dog was lifted up, blood still pouring from its throat as through a sieve, and heaped upon the pyre to burn with the others.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. These were her hounds. “Who gave the order for this?” But of course she knew who.

“The king said they were to be put down this morning, my lady,” Davos said. He looked concerned for her, his brow furrowed as he went to bar her from the gate with arm extended. “You don’t want to go in there. It needs to be done.”

“But why? Why would Jon ask for this?” She heard another screeching howl and it felt horrible, like daggers in her chest, and she gaped at Ser Davos, realizing that this was her punishment, that this was Jon’s retaliation for what she’d done.

Lord Royce came up behind Davos, in his full breastplate and cape. “My dear Lady Sansa, these animals have feasted on human flesh,” he explained, his face grave. “They can be hunting dogs no longer. They’ll turn on their masters. Your brother, the king, is right to destroy them. Even as meat, they’re foul.”

But they’d been her champions. Her weapon. It was akin to Jon throwing his own sword into the fire. Yet as distraught as she was, she knew that she’d feared them, too. That the beasts turning on her had plagued her every night. She’d confessed as much to her brother.

Just then, one of the men brought out a few wriggling pups, holding them by the scruffs at the backs of their necks. He was walking straight for the pyre.

“No! Wait!” she called, running to stand in front of him. “You can’t butcher the babies.”

“My lady, they’ve no mother,” Davos reasoned. “It’s the best thing for them.”

But Sansa wouldn’t hear of it. “My brother does not punish children for the sins of their fathers. Or their mothers. The pups have eaten no meat. They’ve not yet weaned, look at how small they are. I’ll take them. We can feed them in the kitchens. Train them as they grow, so they’re normal hunting dogs.”

Davos and Lord Royce looked to each other, the guards who were carrying out the killings stopping to wait for further instruction. The only sound was the mewling of the pups as they hung there in the man’s grip, the earlier barking in the yard now ceased.

“It would seem the Lady Sansa has suggested a sensible alternative,” a husky voice suddenly said from behind her. Sansa turned in time to see Lord Baelish step up to her side. “One would think hunting dogs will be necessary more than ever now that winter is here.”

“I suppose the pups can still be salvaged,” Royce added. While Sansa appreciated their support, it was expected. She wanted Jon here, however, wanted him to defend her. Yet, Jon had been missing all morning.

She’d slunk out of his room after his furious demand, waiting as long as she dared, with her head down as she prepared to avoid the guards’ faces. But no one had been there when she’d opened the door. Jon had taken them with him, to wherever he’d gone. She made her way quickly to her bed, after that. While Sansa’s cunt still had a need for her to pull out the candlestick holder from beneath her mattress and finish her off, the shame in her wouldn’t allow it. Instead, she’d cried herself to sleep, craving her brother’s body all the more. There was something wrong with her, she’d determined.

It had taken her a long while to get out of her bed once the morning arrived. Her handmaidens were surprised, Mhaegen asking if she felt unwell. Yes, Sansa had said, she was unwell. Taria had wondered if her moonblood was upon her, but Sansa just wanted to sleep. By the time she was finally urged from her bed, she imagined that her brother would have long broken his fast already, if he’d even eaten anything at all. She hadn’t been ready to see him.

But now, with the crowd gathering around her, she wanted Jon to come striding out and back her.

“Where is the king?” she asked Davos. “I need to speak with Jon.”

“I don’t _knoh_ , my lady.” He gave her a shrug then nodded towards the other guards bringing out the rest of the litter. “But looks like you’ll be busy for a while.”

It was a big litter, seven of them wriggling in a pile, their eyes open and looking for their mother’s teat.

“It’s a blessed number, Lady Sansa,” a female voice said on the other side of her. Brienne came up and gave her an encouraging smile. “They’ll be good dogs, I’m sure.” She turned to her left to address her squire. “Podrick, go and get a basket from the kitchens to transport them.”

There were still dead hounds in a pile, however, waiting to be fed to the fire. Sansa felt sickened by the grisly scene and didn’t want to be there any longer. She turned to the men gathered there.

“I’ll go talk to the cook. The previous kennel master died, along with his daughter, in the battle for the castle. We need someone to train them when they get big enough. Perhaps there is someone in town.”

“Lady Sansa, it would be my honour to find someone for you,” Petyr said immediately. He made a small bow to her. “Let me take care of this matter for you. Winterfell is yours. You should have what you desire.”

But Sansa’s desires were the problem. “Thank you, Lord Baelish. I’m sorry, but I need to get away from the smell of them,” she said suddenly, the stench overbearing next to the burning dogs. She turned to Brienne. “Have Podrick bring the litter to the kitchens. I’ll tend to them later.”

She left to make her way to the Library tower. She suspected Jon had shut himself in there. Had maybe even slept there. He hadn’t been in his solar, when she’d finally gone looking for him. And he definitely hadn’t been in his bedchambers.

It had been a long time since she’d been up to the library. On her way up the stairs, memories flooded her once again. How she’d suffered through her sewing lessons with her Septa until at last she’d made something pretty, and then it was Arya’s turn to bear the brunt of the woman’s nagging. And lessons were boring then. How Sansa wished she’d paid more attention now.

As she reached the landing, however, Sansa was not rewarded with the sight of her brother, just Maester Wolkan poring over yet another oversized tome. She sighed inwardly, but smiled to the man, affecting one of patience to mask the whirlwind she felt inside. The maester stood up in a rush, in all of his height. He was one of the few men on the grounds that towered over her.

“Maester Wolkan, I didn’t expect to see you here. I was searching for the king.”

“Good morning, Lady Stark.” He bowed his head to her. “I haven’t seen his Grace, as of yet. He was not at this morning’s feast. I thought he may have been overseeing the commotion in the courtyard just now.”

“No,” she replied. “He only gave the order. No one’s seen him.” She narrowed her gaze. “Are you aware of what they’re doing?”

He seemed surprised by the question. “Yes, my lady. They’ve destroyed the hounds. A kindness in the end,” he said with a nod.

“A kindness? For whom?”

Wolkan paled under her scrutiny. “I only meant … those beasts have been used in sport to hunt people, my lady. And fed on them. They’ve been … conditioned to become savage and dangerous. It was not initially in their nature. They were spoiled by Lord Bolton. And now they suffer not.”

Sansa felt a rise in her, disturbed at how quick everyone was to accept this. “I suppose,” she said. “I know you often had to view the remains of their work. That can’t have been very pleasant.”

The man looked sick at the reminder and Sansa turned on her heel, speaking as she walked towards the exit that would lead to the Guest house. “Do let my brother know I’m trying to find him if you come across the king, Maester Wolkan.”

It was when she was on the walkway between the two towers, however, that she heard them. A great bellow from behind her. “Heave!” the chorus of voices called again. Sansa leaned over the railing to look back towards the eastern gate. She could see perhaps two dozen men clustered there, many of them standing across the catwalk of the structure with ropes wrapped around their waists. They were getting ready to erect the new gate, she could see. And there in the row of men at the bottom end, she could make out Jon. A giant longing swelled within her as she watched them. Her fear from this morning had evaporated, to be replaced by a righteous need. She would explain and Jon would have to listen to her. Sansa made haste to the Guest house to begin her descent back to the courtyard.

As she came down the steps, she saw the barreled thickness of the wood raise higher, the men giving their calls in unison to gather their force. Jon stood with the head of their builders, helping to direct the action. Men rappelled down one side on their ropes, swinging towards the edge of the archway to bolt the gate in. She moved quickly, fearing that Jon would somehow disappear before she could reach him, but as she gained closer, she saw he was moving to the outside of the walls.

“Jon!” she called, coming up behind him. “Where are you going?”

Jon didn’t even turn around, but kept on his way. “We need to put up the other half,” he said, his manner brusque as he stopped to take a massive mallet from one of his men.

She managed to catch up to him, walking to his side, but he didn’t slow his steps at all. “Jon, I need to talk to you,” she declared, sounding out of breath.

“I’m in the middle of something,” he shot back, finally turning his head partially to acknowledge her. “You need to stay out of the way. It’s not safe here.”

“Then what are you doing out here?” she demanded to know. “You’re our king. You shouldn’t be putting yourself in danger. That’s why we have builders.” She tried to grab for his arm to stop him, but Jon moved too fast.

“We need all the hands we can get,” he said tersely. “Now unless you plan on hoisting up the other gate, I suggest you head back to the keep, Sansa.”

“Why did you kill all the hounds?” she asked in a rush as he came up to the arch where the left panel was being installed by the men grouped there. Jon jumped in to help them ease the iron rings into the pair jutting from the stone, as one man slid a giant-sized bolt through each tier.

“Sansa, I said I’m busy,” he huffed, as he held the gate with the rest, his concentration on the work. “You need to leave.”

The faces of the men glanced her way with wide eyes, before quickly turning back to the job at hand, the tension in the air between them palpable.

Sansa knew she wouldn’t be winning any arguments here. “Fine,” she said between gritted teeth, steeling herself so her emotion wouldn’t show. The dismissal cut her deeply. Yet on some level, Sansa understood that Jon needed time to figure it out on his own. Let him work off his anger first. She had plenty to keep her occupied until then.

But later, when she was in the Great Hall, the food being brought out to those gathered, Sansa sat on her own at the head table. She watched Jon at one of the farther trestle tables, surrounded by his men. Their voices were rousing as they attempted to entertain him. Jon sat with a small smile, his tankard in his hand, as he listened to stories, listened to their ideas. At one point, there seemed to be a heated discussion on some upcoming task for the next building project, voices rising with inspiration or disagreement. Other men from other tables would make their way over. They would take turns standing, giving small speeches in deference to their king, sharing tales from the battle, sharing their thoughts on Jon. They loved him, it was obvious. The wound she nursed from her brother’s avoidance of her ripped wider.

“Are you alright, my dear?”

Petyr came to stand before her, his brow in consternation as her irritation leapt to her face. He was blocking her view.

“Of course, I’m alright, why do you insist on asking me that every day?” she said with a barely controlled anger. “Are you hoping for a different answer?”

Petyr looked taken aback at first but quickly recovered. “Of course not, my lady. I’m happy that you are well. I was merely enquiring after your distress from this morning. I hope the pups are taking to their new surroundings.”

“Oh.” Sansa had checked on them, and instructed the cook to give one of the servant boys the task of feeding them throughout the day. The cook had concocted a special gruel mixture for them to subsist on until their bellies were ready for meat. “Yes, thank you. I was – it was just … upsetting.”

“I imagine it was,” he said. “After they were so resourceful in ridding you of your tormentor, to witness their end would be difficult.”

Sansa stood up. She was done with eating, and she knew Petyr wouldn’t leave her alone if she stayed. “ _I_ saw to his end,” Sansa stated. “By which means it was carried out is no longer relevant. If you’ll excuse me, Lord Baelish, I’m quite tired. I think I’d like to retire for the evening.”

“Perhaps you will allow me to escort you to the Keep then,” he offered. He looked behind him, towards Jon’s table. “It seems the king is still busy,” he added. Sansa had been trying to keep them apart, but it wouldn’t be able to go on indefinitely.

“Of course. Thank you, Lord Baelish,” she said graciously.

She came around to the front of the table and took the arm he offered her, with a parting glance to Jon and his men. Her brother was staring at her and Littlefinger, his face a tight mask, and her eyes met with his for a brief second before he turned away, letting one of the men next to him clap him on the back as he returned to the discussion. Sansa left with Petyr, something stirring in her insides, hungry and febrile.

They walked across the courtyard together. The moon was still full enough, and Sansa felt a chill run through her, recalling the pale expanse of Jon’s body under the moonlight.

“Are you cold, my lady?”

“Winter is here, Lord Baelish. It will only get colder. I suppose I should be used to it by now. The warm climates of King’s Landing have long left me.”

“Do you think you’ll ever return?” he asked, hopeful.

“Not while Cersei rules,” she said. “Perhaps I’ll return when her beheading is announced.”

Petyr strolled with her at a leisurely pace, wanting as much time with her as he could make possible, she knew. He inclined his head towards hers. “Your brother has been summoned already, to bend the knee. He’s now in open rebellion. Yet, he does not appear concerned that Lannister forces may be headed this way soon. I have yet to hear of a defense strategy.”

“There’s a thousand miles between us and Cersei,” she said, repeating her brother’s words. “Right now, our focus has been on rebuilding this fortress, in preparation of an attack. Whichever one comes first.”

“Still, the threat from the South is imminent. The Queen has few supporters currently, with her kingdoms rapidly dwindling. I suspect she’ll be looking for allies. Who would make a more fearsome ally than the Ironborn? I’m hearing that Euron Greyjoy departs for the capital as we speak, bringing a giant armada. He plans to woo her, is my guess.”

“What sort of idiot considers that a good plan?” she bristled. “Cersei is incapable of being wooed.” _Unless by her brother_ , Sansa thought, feeling a strange kinship for a moment. “She wanted power, and now she’s got it. She hated being married.” But she wondered about Theon, at the mention of his uncle’s name, wondered if he’d made it to his sister and was alright. “Do you know where Yara Greyjoy is?”

“On the seas, I am told. Following her new queen – the Targaryen woman who birthed three dragons.”

“Where are they going?” Sansa asked, something tingling the top of her spine.

“I imagine to her birthright.” Petyr cocked his head, giving her a sly smile. “Dragonstone is the Targaryen stronghold. But I would venture a guess that she’ll be preparing an attack on King’s Landing from there, to take the throne. She’s won over the Dornish, and Olenna Tyrell, as well, my spies tell me, along with her armies of Dothraki and Unsullied. Maybe it won’t be Cersei you need to fear.”

“You think the Targaryen woman will come for the North?” She stopped to face him, wondering how she could bring this to Jon.

“One doesn’t surround themselves with Dothraki and Unsullied bearing peace and prosperity for the seven kingdoms,” Petyr rasped. “The woman has conquered cities while making her way across the faraway lands of Essos. I know that an old comrade of mine has been trumpeting her name wherever he can to acquire her allies. But it remains to be seen what she intends to do with such forces behind her.”

“And why are you telling me this?” They had arrived at the entrance to the keep and she stopped before they approached the guards. “Why not my brother?”

But Petyr smiled. “My allegiance is to you, my dear. You understand that things happen in the rest of the world, not just beyond the Wall. Things that can affect you, and the people who follow you.”

“They follow Jon,” she insisted. “They crowned him king, you may remember.”

Petyr reached up to stroke her hair, running his fingers down the side of it with barely a touch. “You and your brother … you don’t often agree with each other. The Northern lords and ladies have noticed. They sense there is discord between the two of you.”

“Jon and I are united,” she said quickly. “Disagreeing doesn’t mean anything. We’re allowed to speak freely. Jon being king doesn’t change that. My brother is a reasonable man.”

“He might need more than reason,” Petyr commented glibly. He faced her, his eyes boring into hers. “He needs _you_. To support him. You _are_ House Stark, my lady. King _Snow_ … not quite a ring to it, is there? A king he may be but he’s still your father’s bastard. It might not be wise for him to argue with you openly. There are many still who prefer you.”

But his words only made Sansa’s need to speak with her brother all the more necessary. He did need her. Littlefinger was right about that.

“I’m sorry, Lord Baelish, I grow tired. I’ll leave you now. Sleep well.”

“Thank you, Sansa. I will.” He bowed deeply and left her, his shadow cast long along the grounds with the moon and the light of the torches behind him. Sansa passed the guards quickly and ran up the steps. She would wait for Jon in his chambers.

Yet, when she came to his door, no guards were present. Sansa went to let herself inside, but found the door locked still. Glancing to both sides of her, Sansa longed to see Jon coming up to greet her, his rueful smile on his face, allowing her to explain to him why she’d been with him, why it was important for her to hold him. If she could manage to even put that into words. No one came, however, the corridors remained empty. Sansa left to go to her room.

******

It was later in the night when she tried again. She’d sat in her bed long enough, waiting for Jon to settle himself, to see to his duties or to his reading, knowing he’d be more amenable to her after a full day had passed since the events of the previous night. There was some fear – she saw his face again when he’d awakened – that he wouldn’t forgive her. But Sansa didn’t want to be afraid anymore. She couldn’t sit here and continue to berate herself, she needed action. Jon would never hurt her; that was unequivocal. He had only wanted to help her. She saw his face again when she’d shown herself, shown her scars, and the pain that was held there. She needed that Jon again, not the one from this morning, the one who shut down and pushed her away. She put on her robe and slippers, making herself as chaste as she could, and made her way to Jon’s corridor. She was thankful that her guard was gone, and felt some freedom as she moved through the keep. When she came upon his bedchambers, however, two new guards stood at his door.

“Lady Stark,” one of them said. “You’re up late.”

“I’d like to speak with my brother,” she issued, getting right to it.

But the men wore serious faces, expectant of her request. “His Grace has retired for the evening and does not wish to be disturbed.”

“I understand, but I need to speak with him. It’s a matter of some urgency,” Sansa tried again, already upset at this latest blockade, the cut as stinging as the ones Ramsay had decorated her with.

“He said no one should disturb him,” the other guard repeated, emotionless.

Sansa let out an exasperated breath. “Jon!” she yelled at the door. “I need to speak with you!” The guards finally grew alarmed.

“Lady Stark! You need to lower your voice.”

“I don’t _need_ to do anything!” she said icily, with the full force of her title in her voice. “Jon!” She called him again, hearing the desperation there, and then went for the knob, grabbing it to let herself in. The guards would do nothing to her. She was the Lady of Winterfell and this was her home. But the door was locked. She wrestled with it, as if that would make it open, before pounding on the wood. “Jon! Open the door!”

There was no answer.

Sansa was ready to cry. But she stood straight, rearing back her shoulders, her features drawn into a placid mask. “Tell my brother I came by to see him, when he wakes,” she said carefully, moderating her tone. “And that I would like to speak with him in private before he breaks fast in the Great Hall.”

“Yes, of course, Lady Stark,” the guard replied dutifully. “I will let him know in the morning.”

Sansa stormed away, the hurt in her pulsing. Why was Jon doing this? She needed to explain. He couldn’t hide from her forever.

But the next morning, once her handmaidens had dressed her and styled her hair, she made her way to Jon’s bedchambers again, hoping to catch him. The guards were gone. Sansa stepped quickly to the door anticipating Jon was on his own, but once more, his door was locked. She knocked several times, in rapid succession, not calling him this time. There was no answer. Frustrated already, with the day only just beginning, Sansa set off for Jon’s solar. It was early yet, the servants in the kitchens still preparing the morning feast. She arrived at his solar, it being closer to her bedchambers, and breathed a sigh of relief to find it open. But when she stepped inside, Jon was not there. She looked around, saw the scrolls on his desk, the maps still spread across the table. The morning sun hit this side of the castle first and the room was already filled with a weak light. She waited, but heard no steps on their way. A cup sat on his desk and she walked over to it, saw that it was half filled with some drink. She picked it up to sniff it, smelled chamomile leaves. The cup was cold.

Sansa left and wound her way through the hallways to make her way to the ground floor. Perhaps she could catch him in the Great Hall before he ran away from her again.

But when she arrived, he was not at the head of the hall waiting. In fact, as she made her way down the aisles between the tables, she couldn’t see him anywhere at all. She did spot Ser Davos, however. He sat with Brienne and Podrick again, and they seemed in another spirited debate.

"Good morning,” she said as she walked up to them. Ser Davos and Brienne stood, offering their morning greetings. “I wonder, Ser Davos, have you seen my brother this early? He wasn’t in his office. And he’d already left his room.” She had no thought on what his plans could be. Her brother was maddening in his ability to share as little information with her as possible. “I expected him to eat at least.”

“Aye, I was hoping the same. But he left at the dawn’s first light, my lady. He’s gone with the hunting party. They’re ranging in the woods.”

“Why is he doing that?” she almost gasped, shocked at Jon’s continued punishment before reining in her emotions. “I mean, was it really necessary for the king to go hunting?” Jon had never expressed a love for it.

“He wants to get the current sense of the land, he said. It’s been a while, I guess. He’s concerned about meat. Venison, elk, moose; your brother fears what the rising storms might do to the herds.”

“So meat might get scarce, we have plenty of salted beef in the cellars. I still don’t see why he had to go.”

“I see your brother has the builders reconstructing the glass gardens, as well,” Brienne added. “The greenhouses will be filled soon, with crops of potatoes and vegetables. It’s a shame they’ve sat unattended for so long.”

But Sansa was only interested in Jon. “How long will he be gone?” she wanted to know. “Is this going to take days?”

“They’re not going that far,” Davos assured her. “They’re surveying, more than anything. I expect he’ll be back by supper tonight, or perhaps tomorrow morning, if the weather gets bad.” Davos looked behind him towards the long windows. “I don’t think they want to get caught in the snows that look to be coming this evening, though.”

That was a small consolation. Sansa dreaded spending the day with this need in her, knowing that Jon was away thinking of his own resolutions without her input, without hearing her words on why it happened.

A question she kept asking herself. Did she even have an answer? She felt overwrought and couldn’t think straight on it anymore. Not until she had Jon in front of her. Sansa had to get a hold of herself.

It was later in the day that she made a trip back to their father’s solar. Jon’s solar now, she reminded herself. She’d made rounds in Jon’s stead, with Royce and Baelish on either side of her, Wolkan trailing behind them. But she couldn’t keep her thoughts off her brother. While she wasn’t allowed into his room, here was a place that he spent time that she was still able to access. She wanted to feel near him, to smell him, let that closeness calm her turbulent emotions. In his space, she walked across the room to sit down at his desk. Sansa put her hands to her face, remembering what it felt like to hold him fully, to be able to know his body. Jon understood her, even when he professed not to. But he did.

Sansa glanced at the books in their cases behind her, and across the desk. She scanned the scrolls, hoping to see who the last piece of correspondence her brother had written had been meant for and saw they were all sealed. With a glance to the corner of the desk, she realized the cup of tea from earlier was now gone and wondered when the servants had come through to clear it. Had it been the servant who had brought it to Jon? Perhaps late in the night? Davos said Jon left at dawn. She looked behind her. She remembered watching her father working in here, when she was a young girl. Remembered that she’d found him by surprise one day, through a secret corridor, when her and Arya had gone exploring in their mother’s room. Sansa stood up, suddenly excited with the memory. It hadn’t gone to all of their chambers, she recalled, but she knew it would take her back to her parents’ room. The door was here, hidden. She moved behind the bookcase, pulling back the heavy drape that hung near it. There it was. It was rounded at the top, smaller than the door leading out of the room to the rest of the keep. Sansa opened it and immediately felt the cool air coming from its darkened hall. She stepped inside. The path was lit by torches sitting in their sconces. The ground was still dirt. The granite stones of the castle looked different in here, as though it were a tunnel molded out of sheer rock, such as they were deep in the crypts. Sansa followed the path to see where it would take her.

She found the first door uninterrupted. When she went to open it, she realized it was locked and felt despair again. But then her steps wouldn’t have gone far enough yet to reach Jon’s rooms. Where Robb used to sleep. Where Ramsay had slept. It occurred to her that her handmaidens always knocked on her door, that they never surprised her by showing up suddenly in her bedchambers. Had Jon known? Had he made sure it would stay locked? To help her feel safe?

Sansa continued to follow the trail, winding her way around a corner before coming across two more doors. Neither one was Jon’s. But at the last door she came to, she felt a leap in her chest. This was the one. She knew it.

Sansa heard steps coming from up ahead, heard voices as she saw shadows appear on the wall. Grabbing the knob of the door, Sansa let herself inside quickly before she could be spotted. She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it, listening. The voices were murmuring to each other as they passed her, from their pitch she could tell they were women. Maybe even Mhaegen and Taria. Sansa looked up to see another wall in front of her, but as her eye followed it, her smile spread wide. Jon’s desk sat at the end of the partition. She came through the short hallway to stand in his chambers. Longclaw was gone, the room efficiently tidy. He kept it sparse of furniture, but the only piece that interested her lay by the window.

Sansa went to lie down on Jon’s bed feeling the comfort of it wrap around her instantly, nurturing her the way her mother would after letting her slip into her parents' bed when she was little. She buried her face in his pillow, pulling it to her bosom, and closed her eyes, inhaling deeply. She would have to put in an appearance at supper, but at least now she knew where she could wait for her brother’s return. The pain of Jon’s neglect she’d harbored in her heart over the last few days lessened here and in short time, Sansa fell asleep.

* * *

“Your Grace, the officer at the sawmill has reported that we have enough timber to begin construction on the number of trebuchets you’ve requisitioned. Lord Cerwyn is sending more men to assist. When would you like them to begin?”

“As soon as the storm subsides,” Jon answered, en route to the family keep. The snow was coming down heavy already as the coterie of men behind him followed him outside. “Make sure they have the plans we drew up with the new specifications. I’ll need to know an inventory of the wood they have available. We may require a late logging, even with the snows.”

“Your Grace, we have had replies from the other houses on the counting of their grain stores. I’ve drawn up a list at your request,” Davos said, walking beside him.

“Aye, we’ll go over it in the morning, Ser Davos,” Jon answered tiredly. His body was still thrumming from the exertions of the day, but he appreciated the fatigue that had settled in. He needed to sleep soundly tonight, a chance to hold his sickness at bay if only for a few hours. He’d churned with it since awaking to find his sister in his bed. The realization of what he’d done detonating a blast to his very identity.

“Your Grace, many more ravens arrived this morning. I’ve left the letters at your desk. One from the Citadel awaits you,” Wolkan informed him.

“Thank you, Maester Wolkan. That will be all.”

Each of the men broke off from their group as Jon dismissed them, until it was just he and Davos left at the entrance to the keep. The guards there straightened at attention with a quick address and Jon nodded in acknowledgement before turning to Davos. His body screamed for sleep, but he had a nervous energy as he stood there on a precipice. His sister waiting in her bedchambers was a sobering reminder and he took a deep breath as he prepared to step over to the other side of the archway, the stairs ascending to his dread.

“Your sister was looking for you again this morning,” Davos said. “She seemed better, after yesterday’s disturbance had settled. I hear the pups are getting underfoot in the kitchens but no one seems to mind, so far. She came to visit them earlier.”

“Was she at the feast?” he asked, Sansa’s activities never far from his mind, even when he put in the effort.

“Aye, she was. She spent some time speaking with Lord Royce.”

“And Baelish?” Jon asked immediately. The distaste he held for the man had only sharpened with every instance he saw them together.

“He was not in attendance,” Davos replied. “I know he’s been receiving many ravens. And sending more than a few of his own.”

Jon considered for half a breath having them intercepted before leaving it. He had more important things to worry about than Baelish and his spies.

“Get back inside,” he told Davos, their feet sinking into the growing snowdrift. “The rest can wait till morning. I’m done in.”

“Aye, you and your party had a good hunt. The butchers will be busy for the next week.”

“Good night, Ser Davos,” Jon said, taking his leave.

He strode through the corridors with his thoughts heavy on his sister. Without something in his hands to occupy his focus, she came quickly to his mind. The taste of her still invaded him, his shame spiking with the remembrance. It burdened Jon, how often he returned to it. His actions that night horrified him. He was no better than Ramsay, to do that to her, his own family. Knowing what vulnerable state his sister was in, and yet he’d preyed on her, feasting on her like some craven. He felt soul sick, and it shook him to his core.

And everyone still looked to him, their faces hopeful, expecting him to be some moral arbiter, the man who would be their king. Where was his honour now? Jon didn’t even recognize himself.

Turning Sansa away, staying away from her, had done nothing to bury his guilt, only exacerbated it. The piteous calls for him she’d made at his door, when he’d kept her from seeing him, Jon still found upsetting. He’d sat at his desk feeling his shame so overwhelm him that he’d watched his fingers turn white where they gripped the wood. But how could she stand him? Why was she still running to him? He couldn’t comprehend it. A persistent anger simmered in Jon, the unwelcome feeling that he’d been manipulated into the situation. It was unfair of him, he had no right to it, but it was corrosive. She’d crawled into his bed, yet again, after he’d expressly told her not to. His sweet memories of Ygritte that had aided him in the night, chasing away his dead children, were now poisoned.

But he was abhorrent to think like this. To have beheld the incisions his sister bore across her torso like an obscene tapestry, the way she’d been sliced into by that sadist, had left him wanting to kill something. Anything, it didn’t matter what or even who. It had been the only way he could alleviate the impotence he felt when faced with Sansa’s ordeal. The more that she’d shared, the heavier his guilt had become. All he knew was that not only had he failed to protect his sister from such wretched abuse, he hadn’t been there for her when she’d needed him most. And then he’d gone and perverted her trust in him, the trust he’d worked so hard to gain. He had not a clue on how he could repair what he’d damaged so irrefutably.

Jon walked wearily into the corridor leading to his bedchambers and met with the guards at their posts. They followed him to his door, where they’d stay for the rest of the night. Jon hoped that Sansa was at rest, that she’d refrain from another attempt to come to him. He knew he had to talk to her at some point. She was his sister, after all, and there were matters that needed to be discussed for their kingdom and survival. It was difficult to even look at Sansa without seeing what he’d done to her, but he’d have to find some way to manage it, to beg for her forgiveness. It all felt insurmountable, his disgust in himself so complete he was beaten down, and his shoulders stooped with the weight of it.

“Did Hollis arrange to bring up my bath yet?” he asked one of his new guards.

“It’s waiting for you, Your Grace,” Kevven said. “Do you need Hollis to help you undress?”

“No, I can manage on my own, thank you.” The guard pulled out a ring of keys and unlocked the door for Jon. He cringed inside watching it, knowing that he was purposely locking out Sansa when his behaviour had shown that it was her who needed protection from him, not the other way around. He felt a fraud and a hypocrite. The door was partially opened for him, and Jon bid them good night as he made to enter.

“We’ll have more hot water sent up shortly, Your Grace. If you’ll be needin’ it.”

Jon wanted to sink in the bath and not come up for several hours, but he was also loath to be disturbed from his self-flagellation. He was tired. Sleep was no longer a respite, but he would have to make do.

“I’ll be fine,” he said, stepping into his room and closing the door quietly. Ghost had gone hunting with him and his men, showing up intermittently when they made a kill, but he’d not been seen in the castle yet. Jon suspected his direwolf was upset that he’d been locked out as well.

The bath sat near the center of his room, the water still hot enough that the steam rose up in steady sheets, and Jon sighed, eager to disrobe and ease his troubles. He unbuckled the straps of his cloak on both sides and let it fall to the floor, leaving it for Hollis.

But it was on his way to the copper tub that he stopped mid-stride, stilling his movements. There in his bed, to the right of him, a figure slept and Jon’s breath caught at the sight. Her back was to him, red hair trailing down to his covers. She wore her sleeveless nightgown, frills around the hem like petals, an eyelet pattern that stamped the cuffs and decorated the bodice giving her an air of youthful innocence.

Jon’s shock was thorough. He felt his fingers go tight, his face burned, the blood running through him hot and acrid, his heart pumping faster as soon as he saw her. How did she even get in here? Once again, he couldn’t understand why Sansa would want to see him, after what he’d done to her. Was it to deliver some scathing indictment? He certainly deserved it.

Yet Jon feared his sister as much as he feared himself. He’d wanted to help her and instead he’d ruined any opportunity for her to recover from her atrocities. And she had come to him because she had believed him to be a good man. What could he say to her to change what had happened? He would only hurt her again. There was something vile in him, he understood with a growing clarity. A malignant spot on his insides that Jon had brought back with his return. And he feared it was spreading.

He came around the other side of the bed to see her face. Sansa slept with his pillow clutched to her chest, her nose pressed to its seam. She slept so peacefully, so sweetly, and his heart broke to see her like this: a young woman who’d seen too many horrors in her short life, yet somehow still carried herself with such grace and intelligence. In his heart, Jon had as much admiration for her as he did frustration. Sansa wanted to believe that he knew her, that they shared something in their experiences, but she was a mystery to him. His sister was full of untold layers, and each day, another peeled away and he saw a new glimpse of her. And in return, what had he shown her of him? Betrayal.

Jon let out a long shaky breath and sat down next to her. It had to be done.

“Sansa,” he said tenderly, a hand pressed lightly to her shoulder. Jon saw the crosses on her arm again, and ran a finger gingerly over one of them, his sadness for her suffering unbearable. He didn’t know how to make it right, but he wanted to desperately.

Her eyes flew open suddenly. “Jon,” she said, with such relief in her voice. “You’re here.”

“I am,” he told her. His hand still rested on her arm and he pulled it back, afraid he might scare her.

His sister surged up in his bed and wrapped her arms about his neck, shocking him further. “Jon!” she cried. “Why did you go?”

Instantly, he put hands to her waist and pushed her away, standing up quickly. She shouldn’t touch him.

“Sansa, what are you doing in here? I locked the door.”

She sat up and looked at him solemnly, her hands worrying the buttons at her chest. “You did,” she said, with a wince. “I found the servant’s door. Why wouldn’t you let me come and see you? I only wanted to explain. To tell you I was sorry.”

Jon turned cold, the dread building, feeling as though the room was tilting. “What are you talking about? Why would _you_ be sorry?”

Sansa was distraught, tears glassy in her eyes. “For what I did. I swear to you, Jon, I didn’t mean for it to happen. I only wanted to see them. Tell me you’ll forgive me, I beg of you.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying, Sansa,” he admitted, a panic rising in him. Did his sister no longer know her mind? “You didn’t do anything to _me_. It was I who hurt you. What I did was unforgivable. But I’m asking, anyway. I’m so, so sorry, Sansa. You have to believe me.”

Her eyes crinkled, her expression turning puzzled. “You didn’t hurt me,” she declared.

Jon stared at her, dumbfounded, now thoroughly concerned. “Sansa. I … I assaulted you.” She needed to understand the truth of it.

But Sansa persisted. “I don’t recall that. You only … you were dreaming. I took advantage.”

“What?” His voice was dulled and distant. He felt as disoriented as that night, coming to his senses to realize his mouth was on her, that it was his sister beneath him while he licked her sex with abandon. He felt his gorge rise for a moment, his sickness all-encompassing.

“I shouldn’t have touched it.”

Jon was still confused, her words oblique. Yet a chill raced up his back to hear them. “Shouldn’t have touched what?”

Sansa only looked at him with wide watery eyes that swam with her guilt.

An icy cold crept through him as memories trickled into his consciousness, of dreams that had been so vividly real. He remembered the moments when Ygritte had done things to him, when her lips had been on his. As if she’d been there with him, her hands so blissfully warm. The air left Jon’s lungs, his throat locked up, as it began to penetrate his mind that it had been his sister, not Ygritte, whom he’d felt on him. A looming horror filtered through him - Jon didn’t know what to do with this news, how he was supposed to react. It seemed incongruous to everything he thought he knew.

“I was curious,” she went on to confess. “I only wanted to know how it … the way it would feel with someone kind.”

“You think me kind,” he said hoarsely, stunned. Did his sister not understand that he’d corrupted her?

“Ramsay’s always hurt me,” she said, shaking her head in her anger. “Every time he laid with me. Sometimes, it made me bleed, after. If he didn’t cut me, he’d make me do other things.

Sansa grabbed his hand and it took all of Jon’s strength not to recoil from her. “You’re not like that,” she told him, a tear finally escaping down her cheek. “I don’t have to be afraid of it with you. I don’t want to be. I won’t.”

“Sansa … you can’t –” But he didn’t want to say the wrong thing. His sister was hurting enough already. “When you find someone who you love, you won’t be afraid. It won’t be like Ramsay. I promise you.”

“But how can you promise?!” she cried.

“Sansa, lower your voice.” His hands felt numb and he flexed his fingers as he slid a quick glance at the door.

“What happens when you have to marry me off?” she continued. “To make an alliance? And I’ll have to go through that again, do something so private with a stranger, not knowing what he’ll do to me after everyone’s gone.”

Jon was shocked again. “I would never do that,” he rumbled back, the need for her to believe him pervasive. “Who you decide to marry is your choice, Sansa. I won’t do that to you.”

“You can’t promise that,” she said again in frustration. “You’re a king! Jon, you do know how an alliance works, don’t you? We have no idea what will happen in the future. If you have to trade _me_ to protect the North, you’ll do it.”

“I’m not selling my sister off like a common whore,” he insisted, finally pulling out of her grip. “That’s the move of your friend, Baelish. If I say I won’t, then I won’t. I give you my word.” But that wasn’t even the problem, his thoughts replenished with the visions of her in his bed. “Sansa, listen to me. Whether you … instigated the act or not, I shouldn’t have done what I did to you. There’s no excuse for it. And for that, I’m deeply sorry. I’ll understand if you don’t want to be around me. I was only trying to spare you … from my presence.”

“But you killed the hounds,” she accused. “I thought you were punishing me.”

“No,” he stated emphatically. “That was not a punishment. They were upsetting you. I should have destroyed them right after they killed him. It was cruel to have kept them around.”

“Then why do you think you’ve hurt me?”

Jon was rendered speechless. He wasn’t sure how to explain this to her, and he was at a loss as to why his sister couldn’t see it. “Sansa … I disrespected you. Molested you. It was disgraceful, what I did.”

Sansa narrowed her gaze at him, and Jon felt her scrutiny like ants crawling down his arms. “But that’s not how it felt.”

“It doesn’t matter how it felt, it was unseemly. Immoral.”

“You called her name,” Sansa said, warily. “I heard you. You’ve done this for Ygritte. I thought you loved her.”

“I did love her.”

“So it can’t be bad then.”

Jon felt undone. “It is when it wasn’t requested. When you do it to your sister,” he asserted, trying to hold on to his sanity as much as his patience.

“ _Half-_ sister.”

Jon sucked in a hard breath. It couldn’t be helped, the demotion felt like a punch to his ribs. He knew he deserved it, but it still hurt.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Sansa rushed, reaching to take hold of his wrist.

“And how did you mean it then? I’m your bastard brother, Sansa. Craven and base. I’ve heard it all my life. I think you made my point for me.” Catelyn had probably feared it, had kept him away from her daughter intentionally. And to discover she’d been right to worry was crushing.

“No! I only meant … it was causing you distress. Our blood to each other isn’t as strong as if... I don’t want you to think that you did something wrong. I liked it. You didn’t harm me.”

Jon choked. “Sansa,” he gasped. “You didn’t like it. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

Anger flashed across her face for a second, her mouth a tight line. “I know my mind,” she insisted. “I’m not mad, nor enfeebled. I allowed it to happen because _I_ wanted it to.”

He turned away from her, feeling shaken. This was not going as he’d expected. There was nothing he could summon up to make her understand that he’d exploited her need to find some companionship in him.

“This isn’t happening,” he muttered.

Then suddenly, Sansa was behind him, her hands on his shoulders and her cheek near his. Jon felt the room tilt the other way, jarred by her closeness.

“Jon, I _am_ sorry. I wanted to touch you, that was all. I wanted you to see me, all of me, and you did. You didn’t look away in disgust. I only wished to see them again.”

He shook his head, trying to release her. “See what? My wounds?” He wasn’t sure he understood her fascination with them, even after seeing her own scars. They were completely different.

“Yes.” Sansa slipped her hands under his arms and around his sides, locking them across his belly. “You came back. For me.”

The cold in him went deeper still, into his bones until they ached. Jon couldn’t answer her. He turned around, still in her embrace, and met his sister’s eyes. She looked back with a fierceness that shattered him. She believed this.

“Sansa, I’m just a man,” he offered lamely.

“You’re a good man,” she countered.

“I’m not.” He felt a sob rise up in him, thick in his throat. He no longer knew what he was.

Sansa put her hand tenderly to his cheek, and he didn’t know what else to do, so he just stood there, let her stroke his face. “You kissed me. That’s all you did, Jon. And it was loving. Sweet.” Tears welled up in her eyes once more, a long drop tracking down her face. “I haven’t felt that … in _so long_. When Ramsay grew angry, when he tired of cutting me, he’d turn his dagger around. Used the hilt as a weapon to hurt me. It felt like my insides were being bludgeoned. That’s all I know of this and I hate it. I _hate_ it so much. I don’t want to feel it anymore.”

Jon heard the moan in his mouth, his lips pressed tight to keep it inside. This was a nightmare. He felt his own tears spill over onto his cheeks. He heard the men as they stabbed him. Calling him a traitor. And yet it felt like nothing compared to what Sansa had been put through.

When he was able to speak, he could barely get the words out, his voice a raspy whisper. “What do you want of me, Sansa?”

“I want to feel it again. What you did.”

“I can’t,” he begged. “I can’t do that for you.”

“You already did it,” she reminded him.

“It’s too much, what you ask.” His breath came out of him in another gasp, a need to drink in more air suddenly necessary. “I’m sorry. Please, Sansa. I want to help you, I do … so much. But this isn’t the way.”

She pulled his face to hers, stared into him, into his depths. “You said you’d do anything for me.”

“I did. Not this.”

“What if I – ”Sansa stopped. She looked down at their hands. She’d locked her fingers with his, he suddenly realized. He hadn’t even felt it. “What if I can know you?” she asked quietly. Another tear dropped from her eye to land at his boot.

“I don’t understand.”

When she looked to him again, she was crying freely. “I want to touch you.”

Jon felt unhinged. He would do anything for his family, they were part of him. He’d do anything for Sansa. Anything to help his damaged sister feel whole. But he was confounded by this.

“ _Why?_ ” he breathed, his heart pounding.

Sansa’s face twisted in her agony. “I don’t. Know,” she whispered brokenly, her tears clotting her lashes.

Jon tried to pull his thoughts together as they whirled around him like snowflakes in a wild storm. She was asking something of him that would have seemed simple enough but for the fact that they were kin. He didn’t understand it, but he was trying to.

“So … you just want,” he struggled for the words. “You merely want _access_ to me … my body?”

He thought of how warped and horrid his sister’s education into sex had been, and attempted to see it in her skin. He’d been fortunate, to have had Ygritte show him. Yet to be humiliated, tortured like that, Jon wouldn’t want anyone to touch him after. He didn’t even like others to lay eyes upon his scars, something so demeaning there, a treatise to his failures. But then he thought of his sister standing at the kennel gate, watching her husband being devoured. Sansa had moved beyond fear. And Jon understood wanting to take action, to not let that damage hold him in stasis, to haunt his every waking moment.

Sansa’s tears had stopped. She looked resigned to it, whatever was happening here. She nodded her head. “Yes,” she uttered softly.

“And this … you think this will help you?”

“ _Yessss_ ,” she hissed, her eyes closed tight.

His sister needed him. After he had left her to this, left her on her own, with people only wanting to use her or to harm her, and she was asking him for help. She’d asked before, when she wanted him to fight for her and their brother, for their home. And she’d been right to. He would find a way to help her now.

Jon heard his voice from very far away, weary and defeated. “All right,” he said.


	8. Chapter 8

**viii.**

Jon took a heavy breath as Sansa flung her arms around his neck again, the weight of her body pressed to him. He gently set his fingers to her hips to push her back a few inches. He needed air. But Sansa held on to him for a while longer, her face in his neck as her tears renewed. He could feel her shuddering as she cried.

“Sansa,” he said, sobering himself. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

She nodded her head vigorously at first, still clutching him, but then pulled back, sniffing back her tears.

“Yes,” she replied, a resolve in her face.

He felt immediately awkward – partially relieved that he hadn’t hurt his sister the way that he’d thought, but not sure what her request would entail. “How … how do you want to do this then?”

Instead of answering, Sansa looked in the direction of the tub still sitting in the room, the steam long absent. “I think your bath has probably grown cold,” she said. “Would you like your guards to bring more hot water?”

“No,” he said quickly. Jon didn’t want to bring anyone else into the room. The situation was fraught enough. “I don’t need to bathe tonight. It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re getting quite a reputation,” she noted. “The king who loves his baths. You’ll be the cleanest man in the seven kingdoms.”

“I like the heat,” he said simply.

“But you’re always so warm.” She frowned. “Lying next to you is like lying by the fire.”

Jon swallowed deeply, not commenting on everything that was wrong with his sister knowing that. “It’s not like I haven’t taken them cold before,” he said. “The Wall is not exactly known for its hot springs. You were lucky if you could get a wash, let alone a bath.”

She stared at him hard, her eyes wide. “Do you want to take one anyway? I can … I can help wash you.”

Jon breathed in sharply through his nose. He supposed this was the obvious step. “If you’d like,” he offered quietly. He would let her lead whatever this was.

Sansa seemed to settle back into herself with a task at hand, wiping the tears from her face with her fingers. Instantly, she resumed her bossiness over him, her tone business-like. “Let me get the buckles done. I’ll get your boots after we get this off.” She began to attend to his brigandine.

“Sansa, you don’t have to take off my boots.” Something about the way she knelt at his feet had a way of reinforcing the change in their relationship. He didn’t want Sansa feeling subservient to him. With a pat to his elbow, she made him lift his arms and he followed her lead, letting her pull his heavy leather armor over his head. He stood there while she went to hang it up on his wall, _tutting_ to herself when she noticed his cape on the floor. She lifted that too and draped it on its hook.

When she came back to him, she went to work on the rest of it, unlacing his gambeson, his tunic, with deep concentration. Once he was down to his long shirt and breeches, she made him sit on the bed and he let her pull off his boots anyway. She seemed so determined. On her knees before him, she pulled at the ties at his chest, opening his shirt, still focused but not looking at his face. Sansa went to pull the cuffs at his wrists until the sleeves dragged down. The wind howled outside, whistles coming from between the windows, and Jon felt that wildness in him rise with the storm, pushing it down so he could remain an anchor for his sister.

“Here, let me,” he said, bringing his fingers to the back of his neck to take hold of it, pulling it over his head so it slid into a puddle of white linen in his lap. Sansa’s eyes grew wider as she took in his scars again, but she quickly stood up, holding out her hand to help him do the same. It was a sweet gesture. He stood with her and she pulled his hand, leading him to the tub. When they came to it, Sansa turned and put her fingers hesitantly to the laces of his breeches. He stopped her with his hand over hers.

“Sansa, I’ll do it.”

She stood waiting, her eyes on him, doll-like and expectant. He couldn’t read her expression but he took another soldiering breath and unlaced them swiftly with a few quick tugs. While he did, Sansa reached down to take the temperature of the water, slipping her hand inside as before.

“It’s not too bad,” she informed him, standing up just as Jon was tucking his thumbs into either side of his waistband, ready to drag his breeches down. Sansa’s gaze went directly to where his laces hung open, waiting for him to finish, and it was so brazen a look that Jon felt suspended for a moment, feeling that he was about to step over to that other place, that black place, and would be swallowed up. That this moment would have repercussions from herein out.

“Are you all right with this?” he asked once more, needing to be assured that her willingness was absolute.

Sansa only nodded her head, her eyes still on the placket over his crotch. Jon breathed out, steady and with purpose, then pulled his breeches all the way down to his shins in one smooth motion. He pulled his feet out of the legs and dropped them to the floor. Jon stood as straight as he could, his shoulders pulled back. He would let his sister see what she wanted.

Sansa came close to him, her eyes now on his face. She rested a palm to his hip and Jon jerked at her touch.

“Are you nervous?” she asked.

“I don’t know what I am,” he answered truthfully.

“Do you want me to help you in?”

“No. I’m fine.”

Sansa smiled wanly, her eyes alight. “Good.”

Jon eased himself into the tub, adjusting to the temperature. It was lukewarm, but he felt cold all the way through. He wished he’d asked for it in front of the fire on the hearth now and would remember to do so on the next occasion. When he was seated, Sansa finally moved, kneeling by him. A low stool sat nearby where Hollis had left his soap and a cloth on a tray, a brush to scrub his skin on its side. Sansa took the soap and dropped the cloth in the water.

“I should have brought my soaps, too. So I can do your hair.”

“I don’t need you to wash my hair again,” he said with insistence. “This won’t be long.”

“Oh.” She raised her eyes to him from under lashes, the cloth now soapy enough to be brought to his shoulder. “But you are quite dirty. You’ve been out hunting all day.”

“I wasn’t rolling around in it,” he said dryly. He closed his eyes as his sister rubbed the cloth down his arm then abruptly brought it to his neck. She wiped it across his chest, delicately, as if she feared hurting him. Sansa stared at his scars again, weaving the cloth around them in concentric circles. She dabbed the cloth to one side of the ugliest scar, its crude slit disappearing into the water, and glanced up at him with a question in her eyes. Jon prepared himself for the likely interview to come.

“Why do you think this one didn’t heal the way the others did?” she asked.

“I have no idea, Sansa.” He could hardly relax, so he kept his arms stiffly to the sides of the tub, his back straight.

Sansa rubbed the cloth softly around the one over his heart. “This one looks pretty awful, too. Why is it curved like this?”

“I – um – it’s the way the knife was dragged, I think.” He saw Olly’s face instantly, the bitter disappointment and the hatred there.

“Was it someone very tall?” She was trailing her finger over it now, and his body shuddered involuntarily. Sansa pulled her hand back quickly.

“No, the opposite. Someone … someone young.”

She was silent for a moment. “Had you fallen?”

“Yes.” He tried not to see the images in his mind. How dark it all was, the light seeping from him, blackness slipping into his eyes. “I think so.”

“Do you remember what you saw?” she asked, her voice awed. “When you died?”

But Jon couldn’t answer that. He wouldn’t do that to her. “I don’t, no. It’s all … it’s like a dream. Someone else’s dream.”

“A dream, yes,” she said softly. “Not a very pleasant one.”

“No, it isn’t. I try not to think about it.”

Sansa wound her way down his scars as they talked. Her hand slipped under the water and Jon instinctively drew in a breath, his stomach taut. But she brought the cloth out and grabbed both ends of it, twisting it to wring out the water. She switched it for the brush and soaped it up again, wetting it first. Then she shifted to kneel partially behind him, scrubbing the brush down the furrow of his back. His shoulders reared back as he jutted his chest forward.

“That tickles,” he said in explanation, as Sansa turned her head to him. But he let her scrub his back all over, the sensations lovely If not for the fact that it was his sister delivering them. She lifted up his arm and brought the brush to scrub underneath it. He looked at her curiously. She seemed so committed to the task. It was almost endearing to watch her. She tapped his other arm, making him lift that one, too, so she could scrub at the hair in the concave pit of it.

“Is my odor that offensive?” He gave her a small smile, attempting to ease the tension in the room; that he held in himself.

Sansa smiled shyly back. “You do get a bit ripe by the end of the day. I should dab you with some of my perfumes.”

“I think I would rather stink,” he declared.

“I didn’t say that.” Her smile broadened. “Ripe isn’t bad. I like the way you smell.”

Jon didn’t say anything to that.

After a little while, Sansa sat back on her heels, her brush resting on the copper edge. “All right. You can stand now.” Jon met her eyes with his. There was something defiant held there in his sister’s gaze. “I need to do the rest of you,” she said, her voice strong.

Jon watched her for another beat, before gripping both palms on either side of the tub and standing up, the water dripping down loudly as he waited to see what she would do next. Sansa soaped up the brush again and brought it to the top of his thigh closest to her. She began to scrub down in quick motions, down past his knees, her hand holding him at his outer thigh while the brush scrubbed to the insides of them. Jon closed his eyes, concentrating on the wispy feel of the brush, as if it were moving independently and not in Sansa’s hands. But the brush went high as she worked, the edge scraping a testicle, and Jon jerked his body again, his sensitivity starting to bother him.

“Sorry,” Sansa muttered, before moving to the back of him. Jon still stood facing front, but he looked over his shoulder to see what she was doing. Sansa brought the soapy brush over the right cheek of his arse and Jon frowned at the action, beginning to wonder just how invasive this exploration might turn. She scrubbed it all the way down the back of his leg and then brought it to the other one, working upwards instead, and repeating the brush strokes over his other cheek. He coughed, clearing his throat to mask his steadily increasing discomfort. Then Sansa finally put away the brush, returning with the cloth to dunk it back in the water.

“Now what?” he asked somewhat gruffly.

“I’m rinsing you off. Hold still.”

Sansa washed the backs of his legs with the cloth before rinsing it over his arse again. It took all of Jon’s willpower to stand in place. But when she brought it around to the front and dragged a sopping cloth over the side of his groin, Jon had to exhale a long breath, his eyes fixed ahead. Sansa’s caresses grew bolder. She swiped the cloth along the hair that curled wet and thick around his cock and Jon’s eyes started to burn from staring at the wall so dedicatedly, as he prepared for the next descent of her cloth. He _had_ given her permission, he reminded himself. It was a hard truth to recall that she’d done more than touch him already. His teeth were clenched tightly, making his jaw ache after a while, but then Sansa stood up behind him. Jon glanced over his shoulder again to see what she would do next, yet he felt it first. Hands pressed firmly to the swell of his back, right above his rump, her fingers stretched outward to his hips.

“You can get out now,” his sister said, as if she would direct him.

Jon let her help him out, and stood dripping on the stones for a moment while Sansa retrieved the linen to dry him. He reached for it, ready to take it out of her hands. “I can do this,” he said.

“No, I want to,” Sansa said firmly. He pulled his hands away and let his arms hang, watching as Sansa knelt before him again to rub his legs dry. The memory of Melisandre and the pleasures of her mouth came up in a second and Jon turned panicked, willing his body to behave. He put his hand on her shoulder to stop her.

“Sansa, you don’t need to do that. I’m mostly dry already. It’s … it’s late.”

Sansa’s forehead creased briefly before she decided to listen. “All right.” She stood up. “But let me brush your hair out at least.”

“I’m fine, I told you.” He stared longingly at the fire. “I am cold, though. Can I get warm by the hearth?”

Sansa looked towards it for a moment, as if she had to consider its benefit.

“I suppose. Yes, we can finish there.” Once again, she took his hand, and Jon let her walk him across the room to stand before the fireplace. His body craved the heat and he stood near enough to press his hands to the edge of the mantle as soon as they were close enough. The heat traveled across his front and burned his thighs like a wave of fire and it felt wonderful. He sighed in pleasure. _I am the fire that burns against the cold,_ he intoned in his head, his vows so far removed now as Jon recalled a time when he used to believe this. Sansa touched her hand to his hip again, almost possessively, and pushed him back a step.

“Don’t get _too_ close. You don’t want to burn anything off.”

She took the linen she still held in her hands and proceeded to wipe away the drops still dotted across his shoulders, and trailing down his back. It was still an awkward situation, standing nude in front of his sister as though it were perfectly normal that she’d just given him a bath, but he wanted her to feel at ease so he put those uncomfortable feelings to the back of his mind. Some conversation might slough off the tense silences between them, he thought. He had come to appreciate the talks they shared in the evening hours. When they weren’t turning to his sexual history or her abuse, at least.

“Davos said that you saved the pups and took them to the kitchens. Are they doing well?”

“Yes,” she said from the floor, having knelt by him again to dry off his legs anyway. “There were seven of them. Like the seven gods,” she noted.

“But not the Old Gods.” Not that Jon paid any more attention to the Old Gods. He didn’t even like the one that was supposedly responsible for him being here.

“No. But like your scars.”

In his nightmares, Jon could only ever see six faces. He didn’t even know where the last one came from. He didn’t want to think on them anymore. This evening wasn’t about him. He wondered again why Sansa was so intent on discussing them, what meaning they had for her.

“They’re not the only scars I bear,” he offered. “You tend to forget them after a while.”

She suddenly brushed one on the front of his thigh, just below his hip. “What happened here?” she asked, that curiosity both maddening and appreciated. These were often the only times he ruminated on such things. Jon looked down to where she pointed.

“That was from the battle at Castle Black, when the Freefolk attacked – ” he paused, taking notice of the scar again before realizing he’d got it wrong. “Wait, no, that was from one of my black brothers. The group from the Night’s Watch who had mutinied at Craster’s Keep, after they’d suffered a massive defeat at the Fist of the First Men. They murdered Lord Commander Mormont in the fight.”

“That seems to be a recurring practice at the Wall,” Sansa suggested, after standing up. She reached to the back of his head to untie the knot around the bun in his hair. “Don’t those men know how to settle a disagreement peacefully?”

“Aye, you’re right. For many of them, it was the Wall or prison, after all. Not the most enlightened of thinkers. It can be … difficult, to get them to see past old grievances. Past prejudices they’ve held all their lives. But many of them had lost families to the Freefolk raiding their lands, massacring entire villages as they went. Those brothers weren’t prone to accepting new ideas, such as living with their former enemy.” Sansa ran her fingers through his hair at the back of his head, spreading it loose, and Jon had to take a moment to recall what he’d just said.

“Sounds like the rest of the North.” She looked into his face. “But what does this have to do with your scar?”

“Sorry, I was getting to that,” he said, turning to take the linen from her. He went to wrap it around his hips but Sansa pulled it from his grip.

“Wait,” she pressed, her eyes widening when she looked up at him again. “Continue, please.”

Jon was thrown only for a moment. She obviously wanted something beyond bathing him and he resolved to let her come to the request in her own time. “It was nothing. I … I took a band of men with me. After I had come back from living with the Freefolk, learning their plans. As soon as I was better, we went back to Craster’s Keep, where the mutineers still held Craster’s wives there in terror.” Jon suddenly stopped. He didn’t want to tell this story to Sansa. “I was stabbed by one of them. That’s all.”

“Did you kill him?” his sister asked, with a raise of her eyebrow. He should have expected that.

“Yes. I did.” And knowing that she would want the details, he finished. “I put my sword through the back of his head.”

“You said you had to get better.” She narrowed her eyes. “When you left the Freefolk. Were you injured?”

“Aye, I was. I had three arrows in me when I arrived back at the Wall.”

“And did you kill _that_ person, too?”

“No,” he shook his head, remembering the moment so vividly; the pain of betrayal in Ygritte’s face stamped in his memory forever. “It was … it was her.”

Sansa looked puzzled for a moment, but then her features deepened with knowing. “You mean Ygritte?” Something flashed over her face, as if she’d realized an important detail.

“Yes. When I left her … well, you could say she was a bit upset.”

His sister stepped behind him, her fingers stroking a patch of knotted skin low on his back. “Is that what this is from?” she asked in wonder. She brushed her fingertips down the rest of him, growing braver as they hovered over his arse.

He breathed in at her touch. “Yes, it is.” Sansa took hold of his waist.

“And then she died in your arms,” she echoed from his own words.

“Aye.”

“Your experiences with the opposite sex are not very good, are they, brother?” she commented.

“I suppose not. In a manner of speaking.”

“It seems that we share that.” It went quiet as Jon stood there, one hand still gripped to the mantle as his sister traced circles lazily across his back. His flesh chilled and raised bumps across it, even with the warmth of the fire, and Jon started to sweat. Sansa leaned against him, her chin on his shoulder and her breasts pressed to him.

“Is it all right if we lie down?”

“If that is what you wish,” he replied softly.

She came around to face him and, again, took his hand in hers, making him trail behind her. He let her tug him forward, as though pulling the reins of her horse, and when they came to his bed, she gave him another wan smile. “Lay down here,” she directed, putting her hands on his shoulders to push him downward. Jon followed her instructions, sitting to the bed’s edge with his eyes on hers the entire time, watching to make sure she was still all right, that he hadn’t done anything she didn’t expressly want him to.

“Keep going,” she said to him, and Jon laid back, stretched out his legs and drew a deep breath. If it helped his sister to have him displayed this way, he wouldn’t question it any more. Considering what she’d been through, what he’d done to her himself, looking and touching was hardly the worst request she could make of him.

As he lay there, Sansa came around the other side of the bed and climbed up to kneel by his side, her hands flattened in the air above him as if she were about to perform some miracle, and Jon had a strong and sudden flash in his head, a hazy image of the red witch standing over him, hearing her intone her enchantment in a sinewy song, felt himself rising through darkness. Sansa’s stance was so reminiscent that it startled him. He didn’t know where the memory came from, but as Sansa laid one hand on his chest, and the other on his belly, Jon sucked in a deep and horrified breath, his eyes burning with shame as tears filled them instantly.

“Oh,” Sansa gasped, pulling her hands away as if she’d burned them. “Are you alright?” She stopped to look at him fully, her brow creased. “You said I could touch you.”

“Aye, I did,” Jon said in a hurry. “Sorry, I just –” he exhaled another long gust of breath, pulling himself together as the wave of emotion dragged him through a dark place. “I just need a moment,” he said, rough and glottal.

Sansa studied him intently as he tried to calm himself, her expression searching. Jon had an instance to consider why he was here again, what purpose he was meant for to have drawn breath in this life once more. He felt overwhelmed, to see Sansa looking at him as if he had answers for her. And he had nothing to give her. They made him a king and here he was, lying naked for his little sister because she’d been brutalized for months, because he’d failed her, while he cried because he was still alive. What good was he to her?

The light in his chambers started to feel suffocating, the heat finally too much. He started to rise. “Let me put out the candles,” he told her with a sniff.

“Why?” Sansa asked, frowning. “I won’t be able to see you then.” But Jon preferred they do this in the dark.

“You’ve been looking at me for some time now, Sansa. What else do you need to see?” He pointed to the hearth. “There’s still light from the fire.”

“Just lie back down and I’ll put out the bloody candles.” She got up to traipse around his room, stopping to retrieve the wand with which to snuff out the flames, tapping it to the one on his desk, each candle on the candelabra hanging from his ceiling, the one by his bed, until only the glow of the hearth illuminated the room, and Jon could breathe again, the blue and black shadow that clung to the edges of his sister making her seem as if she walked through a long cave. She came back to his bed, ghostly in her white chemise. His eyes followed her as she came to kneel beside him once more, the space around them cooling, the sky and its stars peering through his window to watch her with him as snowflakes fell, whipped about by the wind, on the other side of the panes. Sansa’s eyes widened as she met his face. She leaned down, moving so slowly, her breath over his cheek as she gained closer, pressing her lips there. “Thank you, Jon,” she whispered. She moved her face lower, under his head, and he felt her kiss the scar on his heart. Jon closed his eyes for a moment, reeling from the sensuousness of it.

“Your heart is beating quite fast,” she commented and her voice was suddenly the loudest thing in the room, enveloping him. Jon stayed silent.

When she sat up, her hand immediately pressed right across the worst of his wounds, her face resolute, as if she held that magic over him, as if she might make it disappear with her touch. Tears sprang in his eyes again and Jon shook his head, to toss away this lugubrious fit he was in. He breathed out again, letting his thoughts coalesce into something rational.

But then she was shifting, pulling at her nightgown. Jon felt her movement and turned to see her, his alarm instant as he watched her shimmy up the material over her body, the cold stealing into him again.

“Sansa, what are you doing?” he demanded to know, but she was already lifting the gown over her head, her heavy breasts revealed in that orange glow, the taut slide of her belly, her hips. “ _Sansa_ ,” he whispered harshly, afraid his voice would carry in his panic.

She paid him no mind, tossing her gown to the side of her as she leaned over him, and Jon gasped, his shock returned, as his sister laid her body on top of his. “Oh!” he choked out again, his arms stiff by his side, afraid to move, afraid to feel her on him, afraid his body would betray him and harden at the contact.

Sansa shifted herself, raising her chest as she lined her torso up with his, wound to wound, her face pale and stunned, eyes glassy, and Jon had to turn his head away, didn’t want to see her body, his shame acute. He felt her heart beating against his, however, a mad race between them. Felt her head lay to his shoulder, her breasts flattened to his ribs. He may have been shaking, it was hard to tell, the room swimming before him again. He was so cold. Jon closed his eyes once more, reminding himself that he’d fought battles, had run with giants, had climbed seven hundred feet of fucking ice to reach the top of the Wall. He was a goddamned king; he had to pull himself together.

And then he heard her. Sansa sobbed deeply in her throat, he felt her body suddenly wracked with them, her arms rising to thread her hands behind his neck. She trembled against him, her cries muffled by his chest, her mouth open against his skin. Jon came undone again. His arms flew to her back, wrapping around her tightly.

“Hey,” he said softly. “It’s all right. I’ve got you.” His sister held him tighter as she sobbed, and so he squeezed her closer. “No one can hurt you,” he told her, emotion breaking his voice, he felt the tears slide down the side of his temple. “I’ve got you,” he repeated. “We’re alright.”

He lifted up his knee, pulling his leg closer to safeguard her, no longer thinking of her sex so close to his. “ _Shhh, shhh_ ,” he soothed, thinking of a memory from long ago, when he was a boy. He’d been sick, he remembered. A fever had wracked through him for days. Hands would touch him, prod him, but he only wanted to feel the arms of a mother coddling him, the way he’d watched Lady Catelyn fuss over his brother, a sweet voice in the night to soothe him, to slide back the hair that plastered wet to his forehead, to love him, even if he was a bastard. Maester Luwin had always been kind, the man did his best. But to feel that touch from another was all that Jon had craved. And now, he wanted to give that touch to someone, because he could. Because he was here.

“It’s all right,” he repeated to his sister, as a harsh gasp bubbled out of her, her cry caught there as Jon stroked his hand down her hair. “It’s just us, Sansa.”

“Jon, promise me,” she gasped again. “Promise me you won’t give me away.”

“Of course, I promise,” he said. “You never have to marry anyone if you don’t want to.”

Sansa lifted her head and slid herself over him, bent down to kiss him suddenly. And not a peck on the cheek, but a full one, desperate, needy, her mouth open on his, her tongue searching, and Jon moved his hands to her hips to steady her, to calm her as she made frantic, mewling noises, her breasts dragging across him.

“ _Sansa_ ,” he hissed between her kisses, “stop. Wait,” he pulled his head back, but he was pressed to the pillows.

Then she was reaching for his hand, grabbing his wrist and dragging his fingers from her hip to between their bodies, lifting herself to drag his hand down to the patch between her legs. He groaned, her tongue in his mouth, and for a moment, he held her, before he realized what he was doing, what they were doing. Jon jerked away, pushing her up with him as he sat up quickly, no breath left in him.

“You have to calm down,” he finally said to her, his voice stern. “Sansa, look at me.”

But when she met his eyes, his sister did not seem to be here. “I don’t want to bleed anymore,” she whispered to him. “I don’t want a baby in me. It will just rip me open.”

“Sansa, you won’t bleed. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Sansa was breathing heavily, her eyes boring into his, still glassy and saucer-like. “Do you want to fuck me, too?” she asked harshly, bitter and hard.

Jon felt his horror grow. “No,” he said. “I’m your brother, Sansa. I love you. I want to take care of you.” He brushed a hand over her hair. “Please. I want to help you.”

Her face loomed closer, her skin pale and ghostly framed by the dark, his sister another spirit like the wraiths that came to him in the night, and she spoke against his lips. “Then let me bleed in your mouth,” she whispered against him. She bit down on his bottom lip and tugged. Jon felt himself being sucked into her fever. He reared his head back, away from her, felt the blood wet on his lip, plump and pulsing.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his concern taking over.

“Get it out of me,” she begged, growing to a shriek. “I don’t want it.”

“What? What is it?”

“Do that thing with your tongue,” she said, her voice strange. She kissed him again and Jon felt dazed. He felt unequipped for this, knowing his sister needed more than he could give her. To hear her say such a thing, the words evoking a treasured memory for him, he couldn’t understand what she wanted from him, if she even knew who he was at the moment.

“I can’t.”

“Then you’re _useless_ ,” she hissed into the darkness.

Jon tried another way to get through to her. “Why do you want this?”

“Because he’s in me, and I want him out.” She sounded exhausted, as if she’d explained it a hundred times.

He rubbed a hand across her back to soothe her, rubbing circles in the space between her shoulders. “I understand,” he told her. “It’s alright. You can tell me. What do you want me to do?”

“Take him out of me,” she moaned, her torment so sharp his heart felt as if it were bursting to hear it. “His face, it’s gone, the pieces of it are all over the ground. They feasted on his stomach, dragging out the ropes of his insides,” she gasped. “But he’s still here. He won’t leave me alone.”

“Tell me. Let me help you.” He needed to calm her. She was scaring him badly now.

“Please, Jon,” Sansa breathed, as if in pain. She pressed down on his shoulders. Jon gulped, making his decision.

“It’s alright, it’s alright,” he said over and over again in hushed whispers. “I’ll take care of you.” He slid his body down, laying back under her. She went to lay on him, but he put his hands on her arms to still her. “No, no,” he urged. “Move up. Sit closer to me.” Jon put his hands on her thighs to guide her as he laid his head flat on the bed, the pillows above him. Her knee slammed into the side of his temple as she situated herself, but it was all right, Jon started to feel calmed himself, a stillness inside of him taking over. He slid his hand down to her flank, shifted her so he could help her sit astride his face. He took a deep breath.

“I’ve got you,” he said again, as he brought her over his mouth. Sansa gripped his hair, pulling fistfuls of it from his scalp, the pain minor, it was alright. He turned his head to kiss the inside of her thigh, and a dark line glimmered in the light from the fire, stark against her flesh. He lifted her up, ran his hand down the long streak there, another long cut. He kissed it again, suckling her skin into his mouth. Sansa had gone quiet atop him, her hands still gripping him for dear life.

“He did this to you,” he asked into her thigh, a low murmur in the dark of the room, the fire’s crackling and hot snaps intermittent now as it whetted its flames.

“Yes,” he heard her say.

“Is this better?” he asked, kissing her deeply along the grim line of it, following it as he traveled upward.

“Yes.” She sounded calmer, almost her normal self.

When he pressed his mouth to her, everything in his mind went blank. He heard her sigh. And it was a sweet sound. The sweetest he’d ever heard. His lips closed over her, drawing her in, her sex reminding him of petals, how soft, how delicate, so easily bruised, he had to be careful. He let his tongue slide over her, collecting all that doused him there. It was warm. She was warm. His sister pressed herself to him, holding down his head, and he drank her up, his tongue entering her to chase that warmth, like a sunbeam landing on his face in the thick of winter snows. He grounded himself, shifting to tilt his head back, rocking her across him, his fingers digging into the soft trembling flesh of her hips. Jon slid his arms under her legs and brought her closer to him, let his hands roll over the tops of her thighs, travel up her belly, scooping her lovely breasts into the palms of his hands, his thumb brushing over a nipple. Sansa moaned in surprise, but rocked over his mouth, still, now moving with insistence as Jon drank, filled with her heat, felt it run through him, warming his entire body. His lips tugged at the small bud that he knew would bring forth another moan from her, that would elicit her pleasure. Ygritte had informed him of it often enough when he did it.

Sansa was dragging his head with her now, caught in her need as he felt a quickening in her body, arousal filling his mouth with a sharp tang, her soft gasps and stifled cries the sweetest of songs. His tongue worked diligently, remembering what this was like, how he had missed it. To give someone this kind of pleasure was a such a great gift for Jon, and he let that comfort him as his sister moved harder, her need growing and desperate as he groped for it, sought to help her find that release. “Ah!” she cried, when he suckled the hub of her sex, taking what she wanted to give him freely. He lifted his head at one moment, with her pressed so hard against him, his mouth opening wide, taking all of her. He groaned, Jon wanted more of that blissful warmth, wanted it to splash down on his tongue, for him to drink greedily of such honey, sluicing down his throat like light traveling through him, into his throat, into his veins, into his heart. He felt Sansa flutter around him as his tongue drove deep, felt her grip him, and her cry was hoarse as she tried to silence herself, her body shuddering, her thighs clamping his cheekbones, crushing him. Jon didn’t care.

“Oh, gods!” she whispered so strongly it was almost a shout. Her breasts were still in his palms, her hands pressed over the backs of his, holding him to her. She thrust her cunt to him, slowing down eventually, and Jon rode her out, letting her come down from it, his lips still fused to her to glean every last drop of her.

Finally, she drooped, her body wilting as she slunk down, dropping her weight next to him, her legs still half across his chest. She breathed another long deep sigh, one of utter contentment.

“Are you all right, Sansa?” he asked into the darkness, his sister near, but not close enough for him to see her face.

It was quiet for a moment and he almost asked again, but then she spoke. “ _All right_ is probably not the word I would choose,” she said tiredly, “but I suppose, yes, I’m doing well.”

She shifted her body off of him, and turned around, lying by his side to face him. Sansa leaned up, put her hand to his chest and stared down at him in wonder. “How did you do that?” she asked, still awed.

“Do what?” He didn’t know what to say. The last thing he wanted to do was explain any of this. He didn’t even think he could.

A smile crept across her face. “You know,” she said, sardonic. “Make me … reach that place.”

“An orgasm?” he asked. “I don’t know. I just do it, Sansa, I don’t think about it.” He put a hand to the side of her head, holding her there. “But you’re all right? You feel … better?”

Her smile grew, trusting and gentle. “I do. I feel very … warm.” Jon had to agree.

“Then that’s good.” That was all that mattered to him for the time being. Jon felt exhaustion sweep through him again. He’d been up a full day, from morning to morning, but he didn’t know if he could sleep yet. He glanced at the window.

“You’re going to have to go out the way you came in,” he reminded her in a hushed voice. “And Hollis usually comes in here early to get me up right at dawn. The boy is never late.” Jon ran his hand down her hair and tugged on a hank of it. “You need some sleep. We’ll be busy tomorrow. The snows have been heavy tonight.”

“Are you …” she turned suddenly shy. “You aren’t cross with me, anymore, then?”

“I was never cross with you, Sansa,” he said. “I was angry at myself.”

Sansa stroked his cheek, looking down at him with such affection. “You’re too hard on yourself, brother.”

“You probably shouldn’t say that here.” He winced. “At least get dressed first.”

Leaning down, she kissed him on the forehead, the way that he so often did to her. He found it touching. But then she moved lower, kissed him again, her lips warm on his. “Good night, Jon,” she whispered.

She sat up and reached across the bed for her nightgown. Jon lay there and watched her slide it over her head, watched her stand up and straighten herself. She turned and left him, disappearing behind the stone facade next to his desk. He heard the faint click of the door behind them.

Jon looked up at the ceiling, before glancing to the window, the snows still coming down in a streaming pattern. A faint light bloomed in the backdrop of the sky. Jon sighed, knowing he was still hard, that he’d been affected by his sister writhing atop him, her taste still present. He could smell her on him. But he needed some rest, if only for an hour or two.

Jon slid under his covers and closed his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I lost some of the edge I had, as I'm posting this chapter - which felt like it took forever to complete - with nothing else written yet. I'll hopefully stick to the schedule, but I will be traveling this week (8 hour plane trip, hello!). My many many thanks to firesign, who once again assisted enormously with her insight, reading through this piecemeal, like every night having to comment on new passages, lol. It's a big chapter. 
> 
> tw: mentions of rape and abuse.
> 
> Your comments have been lovely. My heartfelt thanks to those of you sharing your thoughts.

**.ix**

Sansa awoke. It was quiet. Blissfully so.

The sun shone through her windows, swifts of glittering snow still clinging to the corner panes, and she rose from her bed in a stretch, feeling completely rested for the first time in a long while.

In fact, it was as if she’d been asleep for a moon, so bone deep was her contentment, her body luxuriating in it, even though it couldn’t have been more than a handful of hours. By the time that Mhaegen and Taria came in to wake her, Sansa was already up and attending to her ablution with her thoughts on the order of the day. They bustled around her as she sat at her vanity, their voices high and breathy, as they attuned to her good cheer, her smile secretive and knowing as she pressed her hands just under her breasts, the recollection of Jon’s touches, his kisses, so tender and alive in her skin.

“Lady Sansa, I do believe you’re _glohwin_ ’ today,” Taria commented, pleased to see her mistress so after several days of being greeted with misery. “You’re feelin’ much _bettah_?”

“I am. Thank you, Taria. Let’s pull some of my hair back in a bun, today,” she suggested as the girl began brushing her hair, thinking of the way Jon always pulled his hair back like Father these days.

“How d’ya mean, milady?” Mhaegen asked.

“You can plait them first, before you wrap them in a mound on the back of my head. I want it out of my face.”

“Oh, like His Grace does?”

Taria was on the other side of Mhaegen, still brushing, and she immediately began to giggle.

“Well, not exactly,” Sansa noted with some amusement. “He doesn’t have quite as much hair as I do, nor does he wear them in braids.” She briefly thought of the other places her brother had hair and a flush in her cheeks made her put a hand to her face to cool her, an awe still present that she got to know that detail about him.

“But what he does have is so lovely,” Taria said, a dreamy lilt in her voice. Sansa snapped her eyes to her handmaiden in surprise and the girl’s eyes widened, her face quick to blush. “I mean, one notices, when he wears it down, is all. It’s just … the king is always so serious, m’lady, and his hair around his face softens him.” Her face had gone beet red by this time.

“I think you’re right,” Sansa said. “He’s hardly one to consider fashion, my brother, and lives in practicalities. The gods must have given him such a head of hair for a reason.” The girls murmured their agreement and Sansa became curious at the way they saw Jon.

“He does have a nice head,” Mhaegen sighed.

“Do you find the king attractive?” she asked, watching Mhaegen out of the corner of her eye as the girl wove strands of her hair together.

It was Mhaegen’s turn to have her eyes widen, a fear blooming there as she was put on the spot.

“I’m not going to tell him your answer,” Sansa half-whispered conspiratorially.

Mhaegen relaxed, her mouth spreading to a grin. “Oh! I don’t think you would, Lady Sansa. I don’t want to say anything that might sound disrespectful of the king.” She had very large teeth that made her lips part often, her face horse-like, but she was wiser than Sansa had expected, her musings were rarely silly.

Sansa’s curiosity spiked even more. “Like what?”

But Taria spoke first, pulling Sansa’s hair to split into its strands. “I think he’s beautiful,” she said, wistful and awed. The girl was doe-eyed on most days, but seemed especially so now.

“You do?” Sansa was almost shocked by the admission.

“He is very handsome,” Mhaegen joined in. “Your brother has such kind eyes, Lady Sansa. You’re very lucky that you found him.”

“Aye, you are,” Taria agreed, the two of them eager suddenly to discuss Jon. “Imagine, after being away from your family for so long, having each of them taken from you so cruelly, and then to make it to him all the way at the Wall. You must have been so happy when you reached him, m’lady.”

Sansa could still feel the impression of what it had been like to have her brother kiss her where she’d been hurt so terribly, a steady pulse there. Could recall her taste on his lips. “I was, Taria. I still am.”

“One of the girls that tended to Lady Karstark said that the king smiled in her lady’s presence and she almost fainted.” Mhaegen added. “She said it was like seein’ the sun come from behind the clouds.”

Sansa smiled with a nod. To think of Jon having such an effect on them amused her, but it was also thrilling. She was afforded sides of Jon which none of them would ever see. “I think the girl is likely daft, then. My brother isn’t one to stand for such foolishness. He’s a Northerner, not one of the vain lords from the capital spending their days primping and preening for the court.” Sansa couldn’t imagine Jon in King’s Landing at all.

“The men there are supposed to be quite dashing,” Taria said. “Is it true, Lady Sansa? That Jaime Lannister was said to be the fairest of them all, before they took his hand. And now of course, with the … you know, his sister, the Queen.” She wrinkled her nose to signify her distaste for incestuous relationships and Sansa suddenly wanted to change the topic.

“He wasn’t _that_ pretty,” she said caustically. “You two talk of men as if they were girls. Now let’s concentrate on my hair and get it finished. I want to check on the pups in the kitchen before I break my fast.”

“Oooh, do you know yet what you’ll be namin’ ‘em, Lady Sansa? You’ve got a lot of ‘em you saved.”

“I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.” All she could currently think on was getting down to the Great Hall to find Jon waiting for her.

The girls went quiet, their minds on their work, or whatever things they thought of that they didn’t share with her. They had learned what not to discuss, those topics which distressed their lady, early on, and now left Sansa to her ruminations when they sensed a need in her for silence.

But Sansa felt strong, no longer as vexed and frantic as she’d been. And eager. Eager to see Jon.

******

Walking down the corridor to leave the Keep, Sansa changed course to head towards her brother’s bedchambers, hopeful that she might catch him before he left for the Great Hall. She arrived to find that the guards were still there and a cheer bubbled in her chest as she made her way to his door.

“Good morning,” she said to the men. “Is His Grace still in?”

Before the guards could answer, the door was pulled open and Jon was walking out in his steadfast gait. He stopped abruptly when he saw her.

“Oh. Good morning, Sansa.” He seemed surprised to see her.

“I came to escort you to the Great Hall, Your Grace. Will you join me?” She offered her arm for him to hook through with his own. Jon looked bemused at first, staring at her arm and then to her face, but he gave a curt nod.

“Of course. I’d be delighted.” He took her arm into his, patting his hand on top of her own, and then turned to his men. “Torren. Kevven. You men are off duty now. Go get some sleep.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” “Thank you, your Grace,” they echoed each other before bowing low and Jon took Sansa down the hallway to take them downstairs. Sansa marveled at how relaxed she felt next to him, had anticipated some awkwardness over the things they had done, but there was none to be found here as they walked together. She didn’t even feel shy, to think that Jon’s lips had been on her most private self. Her trust in her brother had grown as solid as the walls around them.

His eyes scanned over her features, taking critical note of her, she knew, before he eventually smiled at her. “You seem at peace,” Jon said warmly.

“I am,” she replied. “I slept like the dead. Well, at least the ones who stay dead. I’d forgotten how enjoyable that can be.”

His smile broadened, so heartfelt it reached his eyes. “Good, then. That’s wonderful to hear, Sansa.”

They were about to descend the stairs to the ground floor when Sansa suddenly pulled her brother to a corner by the wall, a pocket of space away from view.

“Thanks to you,” she whispered, before kissing him on the mouth. Jon let her, but pulled away quickly when she was done, patting her hand on his arm again.

“Come, let’s make haste. The snowfall will have caused some delays to the building and repairs. We’ll propose to have a proper feast tonight, the cook has fresh meat and the men require some relaxation.”

“Don’t forget the ladies. They’ve been hard at work, too. Everyone is doing their part,” she reminded him. Jon nodded with urgency.

“Of course, you’re absolutely right. We all need to … have a bit of a break.” He gave her another sweet smile as they began their descent. It _was_ like the sun, Sansa noted, thinking of her handmaidens, his smile so rare a sight that she could understand others being taken off-guard by it, being charmed by it. Sansa squeezed his arm to her, feeling that she and Jon had gone through something profound together and that they were truly united now as they led their people forward. He listened to her. That was all she had wanted.

When they entered the Great Hall, many eyes turned their way. She walked with Jon arm-in-arm to the head table, her back a straight pillar as she stood at her full height. Jon pulled out her chair for her and she smiled up at him as she sat down. The din of the hall had dwindled to murmurs as everyone watched them. Sansa took off her gloves and set them aside as food was brought to her and Jon, drink following, and Jon issued a good morning to all the servants who came before him, addressing them all by their names. Sansa felt her appetite renewed, eyeing the piping scones and currant jam on her plate with relish, the quail eggs soft boiled in their shells reminding her of the pups. She saw that Jon was downing his food heartily as well, and her good cheer continued to swell.

“It’s good to see you finally eating properly,” she commented as she watched him slide hot bread through his gravy. He narrowed his gaze at her.

“I eat, Sansa. Every day. You don’t have to watch me.”

“Yes, because you’re so good at taking care of yourself,” she said with some teasing in her voice. Jon scowled at first, straightening his features into acceptance as he focused on his meal.

Moments later, as she glanced across the hall, she watched as Littlefinger swaggered towards them between the tables, his smug half-smile upon his face already. Jon’s left hand was curled around his plate as he ate, and Sansa slipped her own over it, tucking her fingers into his grip. He squeezed them reflexively and looked up to meet her eyes, with another small smile. It dropped to a hard line as soon as he noticed Petyr approaching.

“Good morning, Your Grace. Lady Sansa. I hope you slept well as the storm howled through the castle last night.”

“Yes, the snows were quite heavy. I slept well, thank you, as did the king,” Sansa said immediately, squeezing Jon’s hand even tighter to keep him under control. “How can we help you, Lord Baelish? I trust your lodgings and servants continue to be satisfactory? We Northerners do try our best to match the hospitality of the South.”

“Yes, of course, Lady Sansa. I have no complaints whatsoever. I do, however, bear some news I’d like to bring to the king.” Petyr nodded towards Jon. “I’ve had a response from Lord Arryn that I think may be welcome information in our continued building of the defense against this unholy threat. I’d like to present it at your next council.”

Jon’s eyes narrowed, hawk-like, a tight smile on his face although with no trace of pleasantness. “If Lord Arryn had news for me, why didn’t he write to me directly?”

“Apologies, Your Grace, but we must remember that Robin Arryn is a boy still, learning the ways of etiquette and diplomacy in his role as Lord of the Vale. His mother, alas, was not the most … instructive in his path towards becoming a man, her coddling often a detriment. However, I, as his guardian and acting lord, initiated the correspondence and sought confirmation from him on a matter I had proposed.”

Jon leaned back in his chair, and Sansa kept her grip with his, squeezing tighter in warning. “Well, then, let us hear it, Lord Baelish. Here in the North, we don’t stand much on ceremony. No need to be so formal for the council.”

“I daresay, Your Grace, you still demand some measure of ceremony here, surely. Your father certainly insisted on it.” Petyr’s eyes shone, knowing he’d touched a nerve as Jon straightened in his seat. “I recall his utter disgust upon realizing that King Robert never attended the Small Council, preferring the company of his whores. Ned Stark sat on the Throne as Hand with a decidedly earnest and serious nature the likes of which it had probably never seen before since Baelor the Blessed.”

“Lord Baelish,” Sansa interrupted, knowing from Jon’s expression that his retort would not be kind. “The king would like to give everyone a day of rest, in light of the storm. While many tasks still need to be attended to, let us leave the politics for tomorrow. You can come to the council with Lord Royce. We would be interested to hear this news and your thoughts.”

Jon pulled his hand roughly from Sansa’s and rose. “Aye, we’ll talk then. I have some matters to see to, if you’ll excuse me.”

Sansa watched shocked, as Jon left the table, storming off to leave the hall. She was about to stand and follow when Petyr turned to her, that smile still tacked there in some perverse avuncular affection.

“Thank you for the invite, Lady Sansa. I’d been wondering when it would arrive.”

Sansa nodded to him before he left to go back to his seat. She was concerned for Jon, the way he continued to let Baelish bait him. Not everyone would love her brother as the king, she knew that. She had to make him understand that there were ways to be sly with such men, to let them think one thing while you planned for another. Tyrion had been good at it, his insults sometimes so subtle that the recipients they were meant for often misunderstood them entirely. And Jon thought highly of Tyrion by his own admission.

But her thoughts turned instead to what her brother had given her. That for the first time since they’d taken the castle, since seeing Ramsay’s body whittled down before her, Sansa felt some measure of control over her emotions. She summoned up her brother’s body in her mind again, and the knowledge that she had some right to it, that he’d given her permission to explore it at will, filled her with pride and a deep equanimity. Jon was a powerful man, that power inherent in his very form, and Sansa felt as if he’d handed her some of that power in the palm of his hand, in the gift of his mouth. She was greedy for it, had been starving for it. Imagining what the evening would hold, what she might discover with fear no longer present, with her brother lying there and wide open to her, filled Sansa with a breathless anticipation.

It would be a long wait until then, however. She set to finishing her food so she could make a trip to the kitchens and see her babies. She wanted to stop by the armory as well. Jon’s brigandine needed a new look.

* * *

Jon sat at his desk, his quill dancing as his pen scratched over the parchment. Sam’s news had been slow to trickle in and Jon wanted to offer him some encouragement as well as give him an update on his own progress. He’d found a few works that featured passages devoted to stories of the long night, but nothing of value that they could put into practice. At least there were some paintings included, creepy etchings of what the Others had supposedly looked like back then, ancient drawings of the White Walkers and even the Night King himself. He knew that Sam had other duties as a student, that his first order was to his Archmaester, but Jon appreciated that he had another in the fight who’d actually seen what was coming and understood the severity of what they faced. He and Sam had both read of the enchantments that had been folded into the Wall to keep the Others out, Jon had heard as much from Ygritte and Tormund. But it was a detail they couldn’t trust, having no full understanding of what they encompassed. There could be ways around them.

He thought of the way Baelish had made light of the threat in his off-putting manner, and Jon’s blood boiled at the recollection of that face, a weasel’s likeness if ever a man could be compared to one. And the way Sansa had stepped in and overrode anything he had to say was as much a cause for concern. Jon had hoped they’d gone beyond those breaches of trust, the need to go head-to-head when it came to matters of state and holding court finally put to rest. Her invite to Baelish was a slap to his face after their night together and Jon feared he’d opened a door to something he had no control over. Jon had only wanted to grant his sister some autonomy from her troubles by allowing her to see him. That it had gone as far as it had was nothing he could turn back now. It was done, those boundaries crossed. They were tied to each other, and not just by familial lines but by something he couldn’t even put into words. Yet he was still her brother. And he was still the king.

It was as he was dripping the wax to seal his missive to Sam that he heard the soft _whoosh_ of the door behind him open. He heard it click shut and listened for the footsteps, wondering if they belonged to Hollis checking on his master before retiring to bed. Jon couldn’t tell if he was truly surprised when he saw Sansa step before him, a smoldering excitement on her face. Part of him felt he should have expected this, and yet, he’d honestly hoped she’d passed through the worst of her torments.

“Oh. Hello,” he said, his suspicion surfacing to his face. “You’re up late again.”

“I was waiting for everyone to retire to bed,” she answered casually, coming forward to play with some of the scrolls on his desk as he stamped the wax with his seal. Her auburn hair hung loose, down her shoulders and over her breasts, and it glinted in the light from the fire behind her. She wore her smock again, her slippers on her feet.

“Did you come to talk?” he dared ask, hoping for an affirmative. “You seemed well this morning.”

“I am well.” She turned to walk towards his bed and climbed upon it to sit in its middle, bouncing around to face him as if she were Ghost preparing his spot before the hearth. “We can talk if you’d like. Will you be long?” She let her long legs dangle over the side of his bed as she kicked off her slippers at the heels, and her smock was pulled up high enough that he could see the shapeliness of them below her knees.

Jon leaned back in his chair. “So,” he folded his hands across his stomach. “Is there something else you wanted? I thought things were … you said it helped.”

“Oh, it did,” she agreed quickly. “But you said you’d let me touch you.” She cocked her head to the side, a slow smile forming on her lips as her legs bounced, toe tapping the floor. “I didn’t really get to do much of that last night. I’d say your mouth did most of the touching.”

Jon felt his cheeks go hot at the reminder of it. “I thought that’s what you wanted.”

“It was,” she assured. “And now it’s my turn.”

Shock took hold of him at the implication of her reciprocating such a thing. “Sansa,” he began with some graveness.”What exactly does that mean?”

Sansa glanced over her shoulder to the middle spot of his floor. “No bath tonight?”

“No. I don’t want my men to hate me.” He knew it was an ordeal for them to carry it out.

“Then I guess you can just lie down again like last time. So I have … access.”

“I see then.” He gave a curt nod to steel himself. “I suppose I did say that, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

The confirmation at least gave him some relief. She just wanted her hands on him. But he wished he could have prepared for this and hoped that his annoyance would naturally thwart any rise in his body. Jon couldn’t let her move forward with her expectations until he’d cleared the air between them, however.

“Sansa, before we do this, I want to go over this morning. I’ve been meaning to discuss it with you, the conversation with Baelish.” She’d looked so happy at the evening’s feast that he hadn’t wanted to diminish it with an argument.

Her eyebrows rose at the name. “Baelish? What of him? Other than you looked like you were about to pound him into the ground like a pin in the dirt.”

Jon closed his eyes for a moment to press back his ire. “I wasn’t. Give me a little credit that I know how to restrain myself in front of our vassals, Sansa. But you can’t speak for me like that. Particularly when I’m sitting right next to you. You were making decisions for the king, as if I wasn’t even there. And I never had any intention of having Baelish sit at the council. Now you’ve gone and included him and he’ll expect to be party to our decision-making from here on out. You said yourself he’s not trustworthy, what on earth were you thinking?”

“You’ll have to include him,” she insisted, sitting up straight as she tucked her feet under her. “We need his men. You can’t ignore him forever. He’ll only plot against you.”

“What plots? I’m trying to keep everyone alive! What kind of man needs to work against that?”

She held her hands in the air as if explaining to a simpleton. “Just let him speak, Jon. The more he talks, the more he spins his webs, the more we can discover where his true interests lie. Littlefinger will only cut you when you’re least prepared for it, if you don’t keep him close. We owe him.”

Jon stood in a hurry, not eager to get pulled into another debate and loath to speak his mind on what it might cost them to owe a man like that. “I think I can manage Littlefinger, Sansa,” he said derisively. He thought of Janos Slynt and how he’d managed that miserable sod, the idea of Baelish giving him cause to take such action a momentary pleasure.

“No, _I_ can handle Littlefinger,” she stated with authority. Jon clamped his jaw and took a deep breath, feeling his sister reduce him to a boy playing at king yet again. He’d rather she was nowhere near Baelish.

“What does that mean?” he asked in a low rumble, stalking steadily towards her. “I don’t like you with him.”

“I know how he thinks,” she said. “I’ll be fine.” Her eyes swept over the rest of him and her mouth curved up at the corner. “Don’t get angry.”

“I’m not,” he seethed, bristling at her demands. Jon stood before her with a rise in his blood, trying to cool his mood as he put his hands to the laces of his tunic and began to pull them free. Sansa’s eyes went right to them, and then she sat up on her knees, untying her own smock and letting the slit fall open. Jon stopped his movements, his eyes widening as he watched his sister drag her smock up over her head and drop it to his pillow. She sat there, a vision, completely nude, the long gashes on her torso appearing to move from the cast of the firelight. Jon had to hold his breath for a moment.

“Here, let me,” she told him, reaching over to finish his laces. Jon took a step back.

“Sansa, I can undress myself. We’ve been over this.” He turned his face away from her body, not quick enough, however, as the image of her pert breasts and shapely hips was imprinted to his mind now.

“But I like to do it,” she reasoned. Her hands went to the hem of the tunic to lift it and Jon clutched her fists to stop her.

“Sansa,” he warned, locking eyes with hers, his teeth bared. Something in his face made her pause, before she turned demure, sitting back on her heels as she waited for him to finish. Jon saw all of her again but then looked away to the wall as he pulled the tunic over his head and draped it over the end of the bed’s frame. When he pulled off his shirt and made to do the same with it, he caught her face for a second, her eyes glaring between slits.

“What?” he said, frowning as he swung his eyes back to the end of the bed.

“Why can’t you look at me?” She sounded hurt.

“I am looking at you,” he said, and he fixed his sight to the top of her head.

“No, you’re not. Your eyes are avoiding me. I thought I didn’t disgust you,” Sansa charged.

“Of course you don’t disgust me,” he told her, his voice impassioned. Jon instantly dropped his anger, remembering that his sister was watching his every move and would feel threatened easily. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“I know I’m hideous,” she said, her voice hard but the hurt there ratcheting. “I don’t need you to remind me of that.”

“Sansa, you’re _not_ hideous.” He took hold of her hand. “You’re the farthest from hideous there is.”

“Then why can’t you stand to look at me.”

Jon opened his mouth to protest, not sure what he was supposed to say to her. “It has nothing to do with your scars, Sansa. Do you think that way about me?”

“No. Not at all.” She put her hand out to stroke the one below his ribcage. “Your scars make me sad,” she said, her tone forlorn.

“So then let’s put that thought to rest.” He sighed, before rubbing fingers over his eyes. “Sansa, you’re a very beautiful girl.” Sansa scoffed in disgust. He looked up at her. “A beautiful woman. You’re a beautiful woman, Sansa. And … very lovely to look at. I don’t want you to feel _ogled_.”

“Who’s going to ogle me?”

“Sansa, I have eyes. You’re not wearing any clothes.” The feel of her on his mouth, in his hands, was still too fresh. Jon couldn’t trust himself. He hadn’t managed to commit to a vow of celibacy, either, hardly a model of virtuousness. “A man’s body … sometimes we have responses beyond our control.”

“You think I’m not aware of that?”

He winced at his mistake. “Yes, of course you are. I only want to make sure you’re not feeling uncomfortable with my gaze.” Jon dropped his hands to rest on his waist, beginning to wonder if he could go through with his promise to her as Sansa watched him curiously. She looked down to the front of his breeches and slowly reached her hand out to press her palm upon him. Jon breathed in sharply.

“I know about your responses,” she said knowingly, her hand still on his cock. “Do you want me to help you take those off?”

“Let me take off my boots,” he said quietly, resigned to her. He sat down on his bed beside her and leaned down to take the heel by both hands, pulling one off. When he went to remove the other, Sansa already had her hands to his laces, tugging them free. He watched her, leaning back when he was done and putting his hands to either side of him on the bed as his sister began to drag his breeches down, eventually moving to the floor on her knees once they were past his hips. Jon lifted up his arse and she fisted the wool in her hands, bringing them all the way down until he was completely exposed to her. Once again, she worked assiduously in her disrobing of him, her hands never lingering. She removed his breeches and draped them to the frame with the rest of his clothes, kneeling before him, the two of them naked.

“Should I lie back?” he asked, anxious to take his cue from her.

But Sansa rose on her knees and pressed both hands to the back of his neck, her face before him. “I want you to kiss me,” she ordered.

Jon leaned his body forward and pressed his mouth to hers, her return immediately earnest. She put her tongue at his lips and he opened them for her, meeting it with his own in languid strokes. Sansa broke away from him after a moment, her brow furrowed in consternation.

“No, not like that,” she said. “A real one.”

“That wasn’t real?” He raised an eyebrow. “It felt as real as we are right now, here in this room, flesh and blood and bone.”

“You know that’s not what I meant. Like you mean it. Like for Ygritte.”

Jon exhaled slowly, reining in his urge to be cutting. “All right. So we’ll try it again.”

Sansa pulled him to her roughly and this time Jon crossed his arms low on her back, holding her to him, and he kissed her with the maddening rush of his emotions, feeling pushed into something and instinctively wanting to push back. His sister wanted to learn, wanted to master these things, and so he would teach her. He had some power here, after all, and Sansa tended to forget that. Jon slid his hand to the back of her head and twisted it to the side, bending his own head the other way as his tongue reached deep to the back of her throat. He grunted into her mouth as she opened wider for him, her tongue sliding with his madly, strange little mews coming from her, and then Jon took a soldiering breath through his nose and wrapped his arm higher up her back, dragging her body onto his so that she slid into his lap with her legs falling to either side of him. Sansa gasped, her hands clutched into his hair now, crushing his mouth to hers, their kiss becoming rapacious. She lifted her body, rubbing herself against him and Jon was quick to harden. He forced himself to think of his stabbing, the pain in his gut, the cold entering him. Jon pulled her back by the hair in his fist, pulling his face away from hers. He glared at his sister.

“Like that, you mean?”

Sansa let out a long breath. “Yes.” She looked up at him through her lashes. “Like that.” She glanced down between them. “Didn’t you like it?”

“It doesn’t matter what I like, Sansa. We’re here for you.”

“Are you?” She narrowed her eyes, studying him carefully. Sansa put a finger to his bottom lip, pressing down on it. “Good, then.” She suddenly got off of him and stood. “Lay back.”

Jon took another breath to prepare his body for whatever she planned next. His member had softened, he counted it a victory. It wasn’t as though he hadn’t had ample practice at staving off lustful thoughts at the Wall and beyond. He just had to tamp down the emotions Sansa seemed so adept at inciting in him. He laid down on his bed and let his arms drop at his sides, not exactly relaxed but doing his best to ease the tension out. But then Sansa went and sat on his legs, her bum right above his knees. Jon sucked in another hard breath as his sister put her hand right on him, thumb and fingers circling around his girth.

“You could give me a moment, you know.”

“Does it hurt?” she asked innocently.

“No, not exactly,” he said through his teeth, exhaling the breath in him slowly as her hand slid up and down his cock crudely, her grip almost strangling him. After a few minutes of it, she looked to his face, confusion in the drop of her mouth and clouding her eyes.

“It’s not doing anything,” she stated, disappointed.

“Were you expecting it to perform some tricks?”

“No, but … why isn’t it growing? Am I doing something wrong?” Jon felt a pang of sympathy for her. He had no idea what his sister was searching for, but he could be more amenable to her, he knew.

“Sorry. It’s … more about motivation, really.”

“You said that you couldn’t always control your responses. Are you controlling them now?”

“In a fashion,” he admitted. “This is an unusual situation, Sansa. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be doing for you.”

“I want to see you grow hard,” she said without a hint of discomfort. “I want to see your seed.”

Jon’s shock knocked the breath out of him briefly. “Ummm –” he felt speechless, not sure how to react to this latest request. He looked up at her face. “I don’t know how this would be helpful.”

Sansa grew thoughtful, her hand still around him but her stranglehold on him relaxing. She rubbed at the end of him with her thumb, slipping it around his foreskin. Jon felt a need to jiggle his leg, to remove some of the nervous energy running through him now and was almost thankful for her weight on him as he breathed out again.

“Ramsay said that it hurt men when they couldn’t release their seed every day; that a wife’s duty was to make sure her husband was spared such pain.”

Jon choked another breath from his throat. “You need to forget everything he said to you, Sansa,” he told her, hearing his voice growing stronger as he tried to impart some much needed truths to his sister. “He lied to you. He was monstrous. Nothing he said to you is true at all. Men can control their baser natures. One can find honour in achieving such a state, cleansing those lustful thoughts from one’s body and mind. You don’t have to act on them. Nothing bad will happen to you if you don’t. Whatever he said to you; it was all a fucking lie, Sansa.”

Sansa took in what he said with her forehead creased, her hair hanging long in front of her breasts again, thankfully. “Am I bad, then? For wanting this?”

“No, I didn’t say that.” He sighed, not sure how to navigate the conversation. “Why don’t you get off my legs? Come lay by me,” he offered. Sansa shifted her weight off of him and Jon had a chance to breathe clearly for a second, his sister moving beside him and pressing her body to his side, a breast flattened to his chest. Her face was close to his and she leaned down, kissing him again. Jon reared his head back for an instant, studying her eyes, hot and shining, the way she bit at her lip, a desire sparking in her features, and he lifted his arm up between them, shifted them so that she lay in the crook of it while he pressed his hand to the back of her head again. Sansa leaned over to kiss him once more and this time Jon took her desire, let it feast on his mouth as he opened it to her, swallowing her kisses as they grew more frantic. Her hand was still on him, but now she stroked down past his cock, held tight to his balls as her tongue dove deep in him the way he’d done to her only moments earlier. His scrotum felt tight and hot, and when she moved her hand to the rest of him, he felt himself lengthen in her hand, noting the way she was so eager to please him, her hand flying up and down him with excitement. She pulled her head away for an instance, eyeing him with some curiosity, then leaned over him with her mouth ready, Jon rising up to meet her, the feel of her hand so good, so warm, and he let his legs drop open, giving her complete freedom. Her hand grew more insistent as she held him tightly again, something primal and hungry in her touch. Jon didn’t think it was him she was hungry for, but he found himself caught between a need to see this through, and a concern for Sansa’s well-being.

She sat up suddenly and looked down at what was in her grip, eyes lit.

“It is almost magic,” she said in surprise.

“What is?” He didn’t mind her continuing to stroke him, could be lulled into a middling state, but worried where it would eventually lead.

“The way it grows. To think it should start off so small, and then seeing it expand so, like a beanstalk being fed water and instantly rising out of the ground.” She looked at him in curiosity again as he coughed at her frankness, not sure how to take her observations. “But not all men are the same,” she noted. Her brow wrinkled. “Why are you laughing?”

“No, it’s wonderful to know that you and Tormund have so much to agree on when it comes to my body,” he said sarcastically with a dry chuckle. “I am pleased to have passed your inspection.”

“Don’t be like that,” she sassed back. “I just find it very curious.” She shrugged, staring down at his wounds. “I’ve never had this luxury before. To be able to touch what I wanted … where I wanted. And to ask questions. I was just supposed to lie there and take what he did to me. Like I was some doll to be twisted to whatever he liked.”

“ _Shhh_ ,” he hushed, not wanting her to spend any more time in that darkness. He brushed a hand over the back of her head soothingly. “What do you want to know?”

“Can I kiss it?” she asked inquisitively. Jon’s eyebrows flew to his hairline.

“Um, that is definitely not wise,” he advised. “I liked what you were doing.” He would be honest with her, too. She deserved to hear as much.

“Like this,” she said to him, stroking him again, in soft, slow glides; her need for him to see her so sharp in her face.

“Yes.” He let the tension release from him with a slow breath. Her hand moved a little faster. “Like that,” he said dreamily as he closed his eyes. Jon pulled both of his hands over the crown of his head, laying them one over the other while giving her total reign over his cock. “Nice and steady.”

Sansa sat upright quickly. “It moved,” she said. “How do you do that?” She looked down at him with some wonder. “It feels so strong, the pulse there. That must be quite intense to have such power between your legs.”

“You have power, too,” he said. “You’ve no idea how much.”

“It doesn’t feel that way.”

Jon opened his eyes to meet his sister’s disbelieving gaze. “Well, you do. Do you want me to show you?”

His sister sighed, stroking down to his balls again with a pain in her face. “More than anything.”

He sat up. “Here, why don’t you lie down then? On your back.” Jon pushed a pillow up for her to lie against and patted it invitingly.

Sansa seemed hesitant to let go of him at first, but then shifted over to where he set up her seat, a pocket of comfort for her to ease into. She leaned back to the pillow, sliding down with Jon guiding her, his hand curled around her ankle. He moved his body over her but then dropped himself lower, halfway down the bed, letting his leg rest on the back of the frame, as Sansa sensed his intention and opened her legs for him, her knees still up.

“Are you going to kiss me there?” she asked hopefully, her eyes brightening.

“Yes. Yes, I am.” Jon breathed out as he settled between her legs, amazed and in some awe that she’d gotten him to this place. “But first we need to set a few rules.”

“Rules?” Her eyes clouded. “I don’t … I don’t like rules.”

“Sorry, I misspoke,” Jon quickly amended. “I need you to promise me something.” Scooping her thigh up with his arm curled over it as before, he brought her body closer to him as he stroked her flesh there, the scar on her leg where her monster sliced into her sobering him up. He stared into his sister’s eyes, needing her to hear him.

“What do I have to promise to do?” she asked, in a tone heavy with doubt.

“It’s very important that must you tell me – if anything I do makes you upset, or uncomfortable, or you just don’t like it, whatever it is, I want you to stop me right away. This shouldn’t ever hurt you, or remind you of anything bad.” Jon knew what those memories could do.

“And how am I supposed to do that?” Sansa looked at him as if he were being naïve again.

“However you want. Tell me _no_ , pull my hair, slap my face, kick me in the head, I don’t care, but you must tell me.” He widened his eyes at her with his insistence. “Can you do that for me?”

Sansa nodded her head, a shy smile forming. “I can. Thank you.” She took a deep breath as he took hold of her other leg, his arms locking her to him, her knees like spires buttressing his head. He slid his thumb down and wet the tip of it in his mouth, sucking it there, before moving it to flit over the pith of flesh just under the hood of her sex, kissing it first as he focused his mind on what he was getting ready to do. This was about Sansa’s pleasure, he reminded himself. He wouldn’t concern himself with anything else until he was done. The girl had been through enough.

When he put his full mouth on her, she instantly gripped his hair in her fists, as if she needed to hold him here. Jon didn’t mind it. In fact, the pain of it was a bit energizing, as he fed off her spiking enthusiasm. Whilst administering a long lick, from the well of her entrance to her clit, he glanced up at Sansa, saw her eyelids down and soft lashes fanning her cheeks, mouth already opened in need as she sunk into her shoulders.

“Are you all right?” he asked, watching her. Those eyes sprang open, shock in her face at first. Then she saw him staring at her and took a steady breath.

“Yes. I want this,” she said in a rush, her tone firm. “I want an orgasm. Are you going to give me one now?”

“I am,” he told her. “As long as it’s what you want.”

She nodded her head solemnly with her answer. “It is. Please.”

“All right then.”

He slowly extended his tongue, holding her gaze and dragging it with him as he lowered his mouth to her, letting Sansa watch him, wanting her to see that he wouldn’t do anything she didn’t want him to, that he was here for her, and he ran the tip of it over the apex of her again, dabbing it softly, delicately, that kernel of tissue its own tiny organ, while Sansa gaped at him, a wonder in her face, shadows of the flames in the hearth licking over her features.

Jon took a soldiering breath and looked fully into the flower of his sister’s cunt. Her damp hair, as coppery as on her head, and fine as down, glinting from the light of the fire and the sweat on her body, the shell-like pink of her as he spread her a little wider with his thumbs, ready to slide his tongue into the deepest part of her, the place she’d been wounded most. This seemed mad. What he was doing was mad. But then she raised her bum from the bed and pushed his head down to collide into her flesh and Jon stopped thinking completely. It was a blessed freedom to simply dissolve into action, to be out of his head and to let his body take over. Jon held on to her thighs, careful not to bruise her, as if she could hold him afloat on this sea of raw need that seemed to have sprung up between them. His mouth stretched wide to encompass her, his chin resting on the space between both orifices, his tongue making lazy circles, his hot breaths on her, coaxing warm secretions to slide forth and anoint him. Jon stiffened his tongue when he heard her gasp, pulling her legs open wider to slide it into her. A squeak came from above him, her soft groans following, and then he started to push her towards him, still holding her thighs, but in a steady rhythm, mimicking the motions of their bodies as if they were fucking, his tongue a stand-in for his cock, head bobbing between her legs.

She squirmed under him, her excitement coming in more insistent moans, her legs trembling in his hands, and she began to move in rapid thrusts against his face, her eagerness growing into a crescendo, a foot pressed to his back, until she was whining with her need for it, panting as she practically ripped his hair from his head. Jon pulled back and put a steadying hand low on her belly.

“Sansa.” He spoke low, but firm, drawing her attention to him, her eyes still blown wide. “Sansa, it’s all right. You need to breathe.” He patted her tummy again. “Calm down. We need to stay quiet,” he said in a semi-whisper.

Sansa did as he asked, her mouth a moue of exhalation, before she leaned her head back to the pillows.

“That’s good. Lay back. If you want me to do something, just say so.”

“I can do that?”

“Of course,” he assured her. Ygritte had never been shy with him when it came to directing her pleasure.

Sansa reached for the hand he had curled around her right thigh and brought it up over her scars, until she could slide him high enough to cup her breast, the one where that sadist had left such a cruel mark, had made his demoralizing threats to her. Jon took it, felt her heart beating wildly against his palm. He smiled encouragingly at her and watched her settle back, her hair now ragged around her, strands stuck to the side of her face.

He wanted to soothe her. Jon used his thumb and forefinger to peel back the flesh around her bud, he could see it engorged now and he kissed it fully as he heard Sansa attempt to contain her whine, her breathing winding higher. Sam had told him that a woman had thousands of nerves there, he’d read it in one of Maester Aemon’s medical books. There had been much quoting from Archmaester Magus’s text for several months after Jon’s return and his friend had asked many questions about the particulars of what Jon had done with Ygritte to compare it to his reading. All Jon knew was that it provided girls pleasure when he paid attention to it and that was good enough for him.

Jon licked the tips of his fingers again and used them to delineate the nub from the swollen folds of his sister’s sex, and once he drew it out he plucked it with his lips, holding on and suckling it as he would a nipple. He teased it, tugging it a bit with the soft grip of his teeth, pulling back tenderly, and Sansa’s body leapt, her mons smashing him in the nose as she groaned fitfully.

“Oh, sorry!” she gasped, sitting up.

“It’s all right,” he told her. “It’s my fault.” His breathing was getting a bit heavy, too. Jon had to keep her quiet, couldn’t let himself forget he had guards posted outside of his door. He just needed to dive in and get her to her release, before he was too far gone himself. Sansa wrapped fingers in his hair again, and he felt himself surge with her, his cock most certainly stiff at this point.

“Am I hurting you?” she asked, loosening her hold on him.

“No, it’s good.” He reached up to pat the top of her hand, pressing weight down on it to goad her to do the same. “You can guide me to what you wish,” he said, his words sounding muffled as he spoke against her slick flesh.

She followed his lead and dragged him closer to her. Jon did what she wanted, licking all of her, the saliva in his mouth thick as he breathed in the heady musk of her arousal. The other hand still cupped her breast, and he let his thumb scrape back and forth over her peaked nipple, the sensation of it pleasing to him. It was suddenly very important to Jon that she come in his mouth again, as before. He needed it as a confirmation, needed to know she was all right with this. Sansa moaned softly as she spread her legs wider for him, and he tasted her sweetness, felt that arousal trickle down his chin. He drank of her, using a thumb to split her wider still, stiffening his tongue to penetrate that haven, that warm beautiful passage which called to him. Sansa tried to stifle another moan and it turned into a shuddering gasp.

“Yes, fuck my cunt!”

Jon stopped midway from delving into her, his body going rigid as his eyes flew open in shock. It was that strange voice of hers, and the hairs on the back of his neck rose up. Sansa’s fingers tightened, pushing him down.

“Suck me, gods. Put your fingers inside me,” his sister commanded in harsh breaths, raising her cunt to him once more, her arse off the bed.

Jon pulled his head away and out of her grip.

“Sansa.”

Her eyes snapped open, wild, as if she’d just noticed he was in the room with her. “Yes?” Her body thumped back to the mattress.

“Do you know what you’re saying? I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sansa gave him an offended look, her voice dulled. “I don’t think you need to worry about compromising my maidenhead, if that’s what concerns you. It was ruined a while ago, Jon. I just want to come,” she told him baldly, a desperate gleam there. He blinked back at her a few times, not sure how to take this development. Her language was distressing him.

“Um … you can climb back on my face, if you’d like, like last time,” he tried.

“You said I could ask for what I wanted.”

He sucked in a breath. He really needed to start watching what he said to her. “Right. I did. But only if that is what you truly want.”

“If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have asked for it.” She narrowed her gaze at him. “Don’t tell me you’ve not done it before. I won’t believe you.”

“Fine, Sansa.” He let go of her and raised himself up, getting up on his knees to leave the bed.

“Where are you going?” she asked with some concern.

But Jon only went to his desk to put out the candle there, his thumb and forefinger extinguishing the wick. He retrieved the wand from its hook and began to put out the remaining few candles in the room, until all the light that was left came from the fire and the outside. He glanced at the hearth where Ghost usually slept and wondered how long his friend was going to punish him for locking him out. As he made his way around the room, he was keenly aware of his erection as it moved with him. His last stop was to his dresser, where a jug and basin sat, and he slipped his hands into the water and washed them, drying them on the cloth there. When he turned around, Jon avoided looking at Sansa as he came back to the bed, feeling her eyes on his body.

“Do you feel better now?” she groused, her manner carping.

“I do,” he returned, not missing a beat. The room already felt cooler, Sansa bathed in a bluish tinge. She sat up watching him as he lay back down on his stomach. Jon pressed his hands to the bed as he stretched over her body and leaned his face towards hers. Instantly, she reached for his neck and pulled herself up to kiss him. Jon needed to take a moment before this next thing she asked of him, and he attempted to keep his anxiety at bay. Their kiss was slower this time, Sansa seeming more in control of herself a welcome relief. She leaned away from him, her arms still wrapped to his neck, and smiled lazily.

“I can taste myself on your mouth,” she said. Jon moved his hand to her waist, letting it travel up to her breast to pluck a soft nipple until it peaked.

“Aye, you’re all over me.”

“Do you like it? The taste? It seems like you do.” Her teeth bit to her lower lip as she awaited his answer, something so innocent in her nervousness that Jon felt a need to make her happy, by admitting a truth he would have otherwise never shared.

“I do. Very much.”

“It’s quite distinctive. I didn’t expect that.”

“Well, you’re a distinctive person.” He kissed her again, a peck to her mouth, his hand still holding her breast as her warmth eked into him. “Lay back down.”

Sansa eagerly lay back to the pillows, her legs already spread for him. In the back of his mind, there was a strange elation in him to see it, but Jon ignored the feeling and lowered himself alongside her, moving his hand across from her breast to the inside of her thigh, pulling it wider towards his own.

“Are you not going to kiss me there anymore?”

“One act at a time, Sansa,” he said. “Let’s start with what you asked for. I’ll get back to it, I promise.” He took a breath and searched her face. Penetrating his sister with anything beyond his tongue was not something he had agreed to, but they were here now and he didn’t have the heart to reject her. It was just a finger, he reasoned, trying to minimize the overwhelming sense of wrongness that spread within him. If it had been anything else, he would have refused Sansa, he’d done so before. But she was too vulnerable in this space and he was loath to do anything to disrupt her careful rebuilding of herself.

“Kiss me again,” he told her, wanting her attention on him. Sansa pulled him to her, but before her lips touched his, Jon put his finger to her mouth. “Here. Make it wet for me.” She did, popping the tip of it between plump lips, her expression both hesitant and determined about it.

“Is that enough?” she asked when she’d eased it in and out of her mouth a few times. Jon had to collect himself again, trying to live in the gravity of the moment.

“Yes. Now look at me.” Sansa lashes were thicker in the firelight, dark rays surrounding blue eyes that held a hundred emotions in them at once. There was so much trust in that gaze Jon almost couldn’t stand it. But he reached for her mouth with his own, hand slithering to between her legs, his wet finger priming her first with an exploratory sweep of her sex, and Sansa kissing him so earnestly, her need battering against him like the beating of wings.

Jon kissed her deeply, his tongue flush with hers, as he slid his finger inside of her. She was wet enough that he entered with ease, and for that he was grateful. Sansa gasped loudly right into his mouth, her fingers curling around as much of his arm as they could spread to where she gripped him tight. He went deeper.

“Wait!” she gasped again, panic there, and Jon froze instantly, his finger too, as he felt her body tense up around him, a grip like iron between her legs.

“Are you alright?” he asked against her lips, pulling back slightly.

“Don’t do it fast,” she whispered harshly, her breaths coming heavy. “It hurts that way.”

“I won’t. I’ll take it as slow as you want.”

Sansa visibly relaxed against him, breathing out into his mouth with her eyes closed, and her legs falling open again. But as he slid his finger deeper still, Jon felt the familiar creeping sensation of ice in his blood. He continued to kiss Sansa gently, let her thrust her tongue in him as he put his body into hers, and that powerful feeling that something was very very wrong took hold of him again while Sansa opened herself for him, rising to meet his penetration, acting so sure and so strong in what she thought she wanted. He knew what a woman felt like inside her channel, had felt the awe of it. Not only was it warm and wet, but possessed a sleek smoothness like a gem, a startling and lubricious unctuousness to those walls that Jon had delighted in. _Slick as a baby seal_ , he heard Tormund relay in his head, the grunting following, and he shook his head softly, dispelling the vulgar sentiment that had no place here.

But inside Sansa, his finger was discovering disturbing terrain, gliding over scarred tissue again as he brought it back out.

“Did that hurt at all?” he asked in a gruff voice. He needed to know that she was no longer bearing any pain from this. Ramsay had obviously damaged her egregiously, as she’d described to him in harrowing explicit detail, but to feel it – his rage flushed through him so swiftly he couldn’t keep it from surfacing.

“No. Are you all right?” she asked with a frown, peering closely at his face. “What is it?” Instantly, a nervous energy billowed from her.

“Nothing. I just want to make sure that you’re comfortable.” His eyes pricked with hot tears as the emotion slammed into him, his jaw tight, but he pushed those imaginings away before they could take root. Jon was so very angry.

“I can feel you,” she said, darkly. “But it’s not unpleasant.” She squeezed his arm. “Can you kiss me there at the same time? The way you … what you were doing before?”

“I can if you want me to.”

“Please,” she hissed into the dark. It was enough. She didn’t need to say anymore.

When Jon returned to between her legs, he kissed her thighs first, wanting her to be as relaxed as possible. He’d never been with a virgin, and while his sister could hardly be considered as such, Jon wanted to be attuned to any miniscule changes in her reception of his touch that might announce the slightest discomfort. He hooked her leg over his shoulder, angling himself so he could lie on his side and consider her carefully. Not that he could see much, parts of her body now in shadow with his back to the fire. But he could see enough.

“Jon,” she called to him softly. “Can I see your face? I like watching you.”

“Yes,” he said, half hearing her, too focused on her comfort. He looked up when he leaned down to split her sex, letting her watch him run his tongue up the still glistening slit of her, giving off its own incandescence as firelight caught its wet sheen. Jon took a breath before entering her with his middle finger, his palm up, and moving it oh so slowly, his mouth quick to latch on to her bud, to pull it from its protective sheath so he could lave and lavish it with all of the tenderness he could muster. Sansa would only feel pleasure from him and he wanted to give her as much of it as he could, an attempt to offset a modicum of the pain she’d suffered.

“Gods,” his sister breathed, a little prayer, “take my cunt,” and slowly her fingers entwined back into his hair, like vines coiling him and dragging him down, down into the depths of the blackest oceans. Jon sucked her into his mouth, the rapid pulse there resounding through him, the room fading away, his finger gliding back and forth at a measured pace, so carefully, and a groan rose into his throat, an ache in him so sudden and sharp. He craved her benediction, a need in him to impart to his sister that the love he carried for her was more than he could ever verbally express, that he’d never be good with words, but he could show her however she needed him to. He heard her panting breaths and he suckled her harder, moving into her with insistence now, his knuckles flat to her bone as he kissed her thickening clit, felt Sansa’s arousal spill down the back of his hand, fat tears of it.

“Jon,” he heard her cry, though muffled. He glanced up without stopping what he was doing, but noted that Sansa was pressing his pillow to half her face, more moans and gasps coming from beneath it where it covered her mouth. Jon reached his free hand up towards her breast, an instinctive need, the desire to hold it in his palm and feel her rawness for him in the tightening of her nipples. He knew it was simply physiology, but it still helped him to stay in the moment, to let her enjoy this while he could take some pleasure from it, too. Even with its desecrations, his sister’s body was lovely, her sex gorgeous, and Jon was a fool to think she wouldn’t have this effect on him. She reached for him, her feet on the bed as she propelled herself towards his mouth, fists still in his hair, and Jon caught her, feeling her insides constrict, the slick grip of her, and something in Jon made him drop another finger lower, a partner to the one in her body, as he nestled it between the cheeks she clenched to raise herself, stroking her opening there to get her off faster.

And then he had it, felt her gush, a clenching that made him moan over her sex, his own body burning, yearning for a release to mirror the one shaking through his sister. Sansa gave a high shout into his pillow, the thing flattened to her entire face at this point so it couldn’t carry, and Jon lapped at her in greedy gulpfuls, her juices cascading down his chin, clotting his beard.

When she finally settled, Jon felt exhaustion seep through his muscles, his back, even his jaw. He slowly climbed up Sansa’s body, her chest heaving with small gasps still coming from under the pillow. Jon plucked it away from her and dropped it on the other side of him, seeing Sansa’s teary visage, her hair asunder, but a sleepy smile slowly blooming on her. She opened her eyes to him and they were filled with wonder and gratitude and Jon’s heart swelled to see it.

Sliding his finger into his mouth, Jon licked off the remainder of her issue, his eyes on hers. She suddenly grabbed his wrist, pulling his hand down to look at the back of it.

“Oh gods, is that from me?” she asked in amazement.

“I’d say it’s a testament,” he croaked, his throat thick with her. “At least I’m assured that you found it pleasurable.” He lay back on a pillow beside her with a sigh, looking towards the ceiling of his bedchambers, enough firelight for him to see the stone.

“Of course I found it pleasurable.” Sansa leaned over to press her hand to his chest, kissing the side of his face. “You’re brilliant at that,” she whispered, then kissed over his eyebrow, one to his nose, and even a kiss over his closed eye.

“Sansa,” he started, not wanting her to get wound up again. But then her mouth was on his, kissing him with such passion that Jon immediately responded, his hand to the small of her back to hold her to him. Eventually, he gripped a long hank of her hair and tugged, pulling her away to end it. She smiled down at him, a finger stroking grooves in his beard.

“You don’t need to say those words,” he said candidly, stifling a yawn as sleepiness spread through him. He would have to ignore his erection for now, perhaps tend to it if it persisted on into the night.

“What words?” A pang of hurt there.

“Well, I’m not going to repeat them.” His voice sounded normal to his ears now, an ease returning to him, and he rubbed his fingers across his eyes. “But you don’t have to speak of your body that way, Sansa.”

It was quiet for a moment, and Jon could feel his sister’s gaze on him, knew she was searching for a stinging retort.

“What am I supposed to call it?” she said with some sarcasm. “My honeypot? My flower of the morn? My quim? The blood spigot?” She spoke caustically, a sour note increasing with each contemptible example.

“Call it whatever you like, Sansa, but you needn’t be vulgar about it. You’re better than that.”

“Oh spare me, Jon. I’m such a lady, and ladies don’t say such things,” she whined dramatically. Jon turned his head slightly to look up at her face, seeing her disappointment.

“I know who you heard them from,” he said darkly. “Don’t drag yourself down with him.” She rolled her eyes, glaring away from him at a point in the room. “What? Am I wrong?”

“Shut up. You’re ruining it.”

Jon sighed, watching her. “Besides, what’s wrong with flower? I happen to think it’s apt.”

“Well, what if I _want_ to call it my cunt? Or should I say my twat? The gash between my legs?”

“Stop it. It’s none of those things.”

“Right, and I suppose such words never foul your lips?” She glared at him now, daring him to lie to her.

“I don’t … I don’t say that out loud. It’s disrespectful.”

“Gods, it must be so hard for you, to be so perfect.” She sat up in annoyance, but Jon took hold of her wrist, keeping her close.

“Sansa, I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry. It’s not easy to hear those words come out of your mouth.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she stared as if he’d gone mad to suggest such a thing.

“So … you don’t want the word _cunt_ to come out of my mouth, while _your_ mouth is actually on my cunt?”

“Seven hells, forget I said anything,” he groaned, wanting her to just stop saying it. Jon put his hands over his face to rub away the tiredness. The scent of her was still potent on his skin.

“No, please, do tell me what proper words I’m allowed to use,” she continued, the anger in her voice rising. “I wouldn’t want to make the wrong choice and upset the king.” Jon sat up.

“For fuck’s sake, Sansa, I’m sorry I brought it up. You should probably get back to your room now.”

“Oh, I’m being dismissed, am I?”

He didn’t understand how she managed to do this to him. A minute ago he had her very heart in his mouth and was practically mooning over her.

“No. I’m just pointing out that it’s late. It would be a good idea to get some sleep.”

She stared down the length of him, her sight settling on his pelvis. His ire had yet to completely obliterate his hardness. Sansa suddenly put her hand on him, and Jon sucked in air through his teeth.

“What poetry should I use to describe this, then?”

Jon grunted in his throat as she squeezed.

“You don’t need to call it anything,” he said painfully. That was more than he could handle.

“Really? Do we pretend it isn’t there?”

“Sansa –”

“Tell me. I’m so very curious. Your _nob_? Your sword? Or perhaps you have some other finer words I should consider?”

“That’s enough,” he hissed. He was tired. “I don’t know why you persist. You obviously need some rest.”

Sansa stood up swiftly, dragging her smock from beneath its hiding place under a pillow. He watched her pull it over her head with rough tugs, her hair now a mess, and straighten her smock to fall to her ankles. She was about to turn and leave when he reached out to take her wrist again, pulling her back.

“Wait.”

Without a word, Sansa flung herself into his lap and grabbed him by the sides of his face, her kiss devouring his mouth in an instant. Jon reacted too quickly, his dark mood having already brought up his heart rate, and for a second he saw the entire room pulse, black spots in the corners of his eyes as he kissed her back just as fiercely, feeling this war between them that would spring up at a moment’s notice a maddening cycle. Her tongue pushed into him and Jon practically swallowed it, grunting in his throat as he tugged at her lip, his hands sliding down over her curvaceous and beautiful arse.

Then just as suddenly, his sister pulled away from him, standing to the floor. She leaned over to pull up her slippers at the backs of her heels.

“Goodnight, brother,” she said, her voice low, a fiery glint in her eye as she looked back at him. “Sleep well.”

She disappeared behind his desk. Jon heard the click of the door as she left and looked down on his erection at full mast.

He sighed. Sliding down his bed to lay on his back Jon took himself in hand.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, as noted last week, I am traveling. I didn't think I'd make this weekend schedule, but here it is! You can thank firesign for looking it over for me and giving me notes right up until the moment I dropped this. She's the best. 
> 
> Once again, really loving the comments you're leaving. So wonderfully insightful into these characters. This humble writer thanks you for your kindness.

**x.**

“Oh, Lady Sansa, don’t forget your chain,” Mhaegen said, attending to the final touches on Sansa’s dress as her handmaidens fluttered around their lady. She pulled the chain through the heavy ring Markas had made at Sansa’s request and fastened it to a catch in the skirt of the dress, just under the belt that Sansa had wrapped about her tightly. Sansa had modeled her dress on the armor of her brother, wanting to appear as military-minded as him, appreciating that the way he buttoned himself down so fastidiously in dress was a hallmark of the way he tended to his nature. She was no longer the wide-eyed girl of the capital, her embroidered dresses always in a dusky mauve or some variation, just a pretty thing that posed no threat to anyone. She understood now that fighting and battles didn’t always have to be done with a sword.

“And here’s your cape,” Taria added, sliding the furs over Sansa’s shoulders and strapping her in. Sansa always felt more secure once she was fitted into her clothes. No wildness could come to her here, the way it would in the night. Sansa slipped on her long gloves, turning for the door as the girls circled around her a few more times, brushing off any loose threads from her clothes, making sure she looked the part. When they opened the door for her, Taria jumped back in surprise with a squeak.

Jon stood at the door, his fist up as if he were preparing to knock. His eyes widened to see them.

“Sansa! Good morning, sister.” He nodded to each of her handmaidens with his greeting. “Mhaegen, good morning. Taria. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. How are you ladies this fine morning?”

The girls immediately dropped into a curtsy, with a low bow. “Your Grace,” they murmured together.

Taria looked up with her saucer eyes. “Seven blessings, Your Grace. How –how are you?”

He smiled politely. “Well, thank you. I came to escort the Lady Sansa to the Great Hall so we may break fast together.” He held out an arm as she had done for him the morning before. Sansa stood where she was for a moment, with a raise of her eyebrow.

“The Great Hall? Are we sure that’s the proper word for it?” She looked to Mhaegen, who stared back in puzzlement. “Mhaegen, are there any other words we know of for the Great Hall? Are we sure it’s not the supper room?” Sansa stared back at Jon. “Or would that be too base?” Mhaegen’s brow creased, nonplussed by her lady’s questions, but Jon looked to the ground with some humility, hands on his hips with his mouth pursed.

“I think everyone has only ever referred to it as the Great Hall, m’lady,” Taria added helpfully, looking as lost as her partner. She glanced at Jon in deference. “Unless the king knows of some history of Winterfell that we were never told.” Her eyes dropped down in her humbleness.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Jon rumbled, meeting Sansa’s gaze with eyes now sparkling with amusement.

“Well then, if _everyone_ calls it the Great Hall, I suppose I’ll stay with tradition.” She put her arms up to receive Jon’s and he hooked her to his side, staring straight ahead with a great effort not to laugh. They left the girls to tidy the room, and Jon strode with her on his arm to the end of the corridor. He wore his brigandine without his cape again, curls slicked back and hair in his knot.

“It’s still snowing. Where are your furs?” she asked.

“I didn’t think I’d need it.”

But Sansa thought her brother looked elegant in his cape, much more regal. He was too stuck in his soldier’s gear and needed to dress like a king. She would check with Markas today to see the progress on Jon’s gorget and armor.

“Let’s get it, then,” she suggested. “We meet with Baelish and Lord Royce later.”

“If you think it’s necessary.”

“I do.” She looked to the side of his face and gave him a wry smile. “Did you sleep well?”

A slow smirk curled to on one side of his mouth, and he glanced to her with a shake of his head. “After a while. No thanks to you.”

Sansa’s grin deepened with his. She’d returned to his solar after leaving him, exiting his office to take the corridor to her chambers. By the time she’d crawled into her own bed, her anger had dissipated, her thoughts landing instead on the sensations her brother had created in her body. She’d been so terribly sated; a deep and abiding satisfaction settling within her, and her cunt still thudded with its own heartbeat, parts of her feeling brand new, like regenerated tissue. It amazed Sansa how Jon could encourage such pleasure to spark through her, the things he did coaxing flights of ecstasy. Her reserved and taciturn brother, always so composed, so thoughtful in the way he carried himself. That such a carnal being was beneath the staid exterior of their commander and king felt as though Sansa had been allowed to discover a great secret. One that she cherished.

“Turn here, we’re getting your cloak, remember?”

“As my lady commands,” he said gruffly, directing them both back to his chambers. The guards had been dismissed, the corridor was empty but for them.

Jon sucked in a breath, a signal that he was about to say something difficult, she knew.

“Sansa. I do apologize for last night. I hope you understand that I was only … concerned for you. But you’re absolutely right. It’s your body. You refer to it how you wish. I should have no say in the matter.”

Sansa stopped them before his door and looked him in the face, seeing his sincerity held plainly in his eyes. “It’s … helpful,” she told him suddenly, feeling the need to explain it.

“What’s helpful?” Jon’s eyebrows slunk together.

“The words. Word. It’s not as … it doesn’t feel as strong, as threatening, when I say it. It can’t hurt me anymore. I can make it mine.”

Something flashed across her brother’s face, an understanding mixed with a tinge of his anger, and he nodded his head. “Aye. I think I know what you mean. You wear it like armor, in a sense.”

Jon opened the door for them, letting Sansa through first. But instead of reaching for his cape on its hook, Sansa turned and pushed Jon against the wood, the force of his body closing the door behind him. She had her hands to the front of his shoulders and leaned in to kiss him, his mouth immediately warm on her lips, opening with his surprise. Sansa slipped her hands to his neck, wishing her gloves were off to run her fingers through the curls of hair still loose, just to touch their softness, and slid her tongue in him, a thrill already racing through her.

“Sansa,” he whispered gravely, pushing her far enough from his lips so he could speak. “They’re waiting for us.”

“So. You know how to be quick,” she challenged, her eyes boring into his to convey just what she hoped for.

“Everyone in the castle is awake and heading to the hall as we speak. This isn’t wise.”

“But I want to feel good,” she said simply. Sansa held his gaze. “You said you were sorry.”

“I am. But this is still not wise.” His expression looked long suffering and something to it made Sansa want to feel her brother’s tongue inside her all the more. He looked up towards the top of her head. “The plaits in your hair will get mussed,” he tried gamely.

Sansa leaned forward again, pressing Jon to the door and her hands sliding down his sides to cross low on his back. With one gloved hand, she curved it over his arse and squeezed, the way he had done to her last night, and pushed her lips to his once more. When she ran her tongue over his mouth, Jon’s tongue came forth to meet hers. As deeply as she probed him, he kissed her in kind, his hands wrapping her to him as well. He finally pushed her away.

“All right. But we’ll have to be quick about it.”

******

“Your Grace! Good morning.”

“Good morning, Your Grace. Lady Stark.”

“Gareth. Aren.” Jon nodded to them as they passed through the arch on their way outside. The guards stood at attention, and Jon and Sansa walked across the courtyard to make their way to the Great Hall. The snow was still coming down but the flakes were lazy and fat, and tracks had been made for them to follow without getting caught up to their ankles. Sansa took a long breath as she felt the cleansing air in her lungs. Her body felt powerful, womanly, as the lingering effects of her orgasm traveled across her skin like little fireworks, waves of pleasure still emanating from their origin point. Jon wore his cloak, holding her arm with his attention on their path ahead, looking no worse for wear even though moments ago his mouth had been on her again, with head between her thighs as her skirts were billowed up over her waist. Her hose and her boots had stayed on, Jon only shimmying down her smallclothes for economy’s sake. Not a hair had been disarrayed on her head, his efficiency in getting her off a startling skill. Jon had wiped his face at his basin before they left, unlocking the door for them to leave while holding out his arm again, ever the gentleman. She had kissed him before walking out, almost chaste in its expediency.

“Do you like it when I kiss you?” she asked now, wondering just what went through his mind when she did it.

“Sansa,” he hissed, looking ahead to the guards coming towards them as their escorts. “Not here.”

“Your Grace, Lady Sansa, how are you both this morning? Come this way, there’s less snow.” They followed the guards to the hall, Jon talking to them along the way. He knew their names, of course. Just like Father, Jon knew the names of all his men, all the servants, their vassals. It filled Sansa with pride to watch him be so engaged with the people that served them. Cersei had loathed most of her handmaidens and rarely called them by their names, while Joffrey often used rude words to stand in for the names of those who served the court. But while her brother was not a loquacious man by any means, he was warm to most, always showing an interest in those around him. Unless, of course, it was Littlefinger.

They arrived at the Great Hall, the doors still open, and the guards ushered them in. As they came down through its antechamber to lead into the hall itself, Sansa heard Jon finally answer her.

“Yes. I do.”

A sharp glance to his face revealed no change in his expression from earlier, his sight still straightforward as they began to make their way down the aisle between tables. It was a gift that Jon was always honest with her, so few people in her life had been. He was one of the last left that she trusted. Sansa looked over the heads of those gathered, a knowing smile on her face. Jon walked with confidence always, and she had wanted that so desperately for herself. And he had provided her that, with the pleasures he brought to her body. She felt as though she’d been granted passage into a special world, and she looked across the sea of people there to feast with her and Jon, that confidence shining in her, making her back straighter, her shoulders sit high, an easy smile on her face. She felt like she could do anything.

As Jon brought her to the high table, she recalled a conversation she’d had with Margaery long ago, after being informed she’d have to marry Tyrion. Sansa had felt so horrified, as if that would have been the most terrible thing she’d ever have to face. She’d been so stupid then.

_“Most women don’t know what they like until they’ve tried it, and sadly, so many of us get to try so little before we’re old and grey. Tyrion may surprise you. From what I’ve heard, he’s quite experienced.”_

_“And that’s a good thing?”_ she’d asked.

_“It can be. We’re very complicated, you know, pleasing us takes practice.”_

_“How do you know all this? Did your mother teach you?”_

Of course, Sansa understood now that Margaery had not learned any of that from her mother, but rather it had been her own experiences that guided such sagacity. Watching Jon greeting Ser Davos, who had come up to their table before they’d even sat down, Sansa thought again how Margaery would have liked her brother. Would have likely been very attracted to him. What kind of lovers would they have made, she wondered? She had found Margaery so beautiful, so fearless, and in some ways wanted to be like her. In other ways, she had wanted to simply bask in her brilliance, to absorb that assuredness in another, had wanted to bury her nose in Margaery’s neck and let her friend comfort her with strokes and kisses. Margaery had wanted them to be sisters by law, and Sansa had wanted that more than anything, feeling closer to Margaery than she ever was to Arya. But to have watched someone like Margaery lay with her brother, watch him kiss her between her legs, would she have been jealous? Sansa didn’t know.

Tyrion had supposedly been with many women, she’d heard. Littlefinger had explained that the Imp had a fondness for the brothels. But Jon had only been with two women, and yet seemed to possess a vast knowledge of a woman’s body. To Sansa, it spoke not of practice, but of a man who enjoyed women, who liked them and was interested in them, and one who didn’t merely tolerate the female sex in order to glean his pleasures from them.

They sat for their meal while Davos was running off some names for Jon, her brother nodding his head on occasion. She wanted to be more involved in their plans as one of her brother’s advisors, instead of merely following up on the sorts of duties her mother would have handled. Sansa turned up her head to catch Davos’s mentions of a ranging party.

“We need to get them out soon,” Jon added. “Eastwatch-by-the-Sea may be a ways off, but we don’t know if it’s all one van or if there are splinter groups roaming south of the Wall. I’d feel better knowing what sort of timeframe we have.”

“Are you going to send a scouting party north of Castle Black?” she asked.

“Well, first we want eyes to the forest around the Gift. Perhaps another group to head up past the Queen’s Crown, towards the Shadow Tower and across to the Gorge, if we can. I’ve sent a raven to young Lord Umber, to see if he can send some men. Lyanna Mormont, as well.”

“As long as you’re not going,” Sansa said in warning. But Jon gave her a curious look.

“No. We have too much to do here.”

“Good,” she muttered, turning to drink some of her ale. But just then, Brienne came up to the table.

“Seven blessings, Lady Sansa. Ser Davos.” She bowed her head curtly towards Jon. “Your Grace. You had a good hunt in the Wolfswood, I heard. The roast last night was wonderful.”

Jon smiled tightly. “The roast was not my doing, but I’m happy to hear you enjoyed the feast, Lady Brienne.”

The woman turned to Sansa. “Lady Sansa, may I have a word with you when you’re done eating?”

“Of course.” Sansa frowned inside. Brienne looked quite serious and Sansa was quite content to float through her morning on the good feelings Jon had given her. When Lady Brienne returned to her table, Sansa turned to catch Jon staring at her, his expression wary. Sansa gave a small shrug to denote her ignorance on the matter.

“Will you meet with me before we see Baelish and Lord Royce today?” Jon asked, his voice low, after Davos had already left to go back to his table.

“Can I come to see you after I’ve been to the kitchens to check on the pups?” she said, crunching a rasher of well done bacon. Sansa wondered if her brother wanted to meet again in his room and a thrill ran through her.

“Whenever you can make time. I just wanted to discuss a few things beforehand.”

“All right.” Sansa smiled, wishing she could reach over and kiss Jon to dispel the seriousness so quick to return to him. Why was everyone so serious today? Instead, she reached for his hand under the table, wanting to feel his warmth. Jon squeezed it once before he stood up.

“I need to see to a few things, first,” he said. “I’ll come find you a bit later.”

She looked to his plate. “Jon,” she whined. “Please eat more than one egg.”

“I’m not terribly hungry,” he mumbled before walking off. 

Sansa sighed, seeing Lord Royce heading towards her. She hoped Jon would be doing better before their meet.

* * *

Jon strode towards the maester’s turret, his thoughts in a whirl. He didn’t know what he was planning on asking for, and he paused in his steps again, looking behind him to scan over the courtyard. So much activity going on, so much preparation happening, and yet Jon felt a panic clawing at him still. None of it felt like enough. First, however, he needed to make sure that Sansa was not in dire need of medical attention, that she bore no more internal wounds that could be festering or potentially rendering her barren. He took small comfort that it had been a few months since she’d escaped her torturer, so was not likely to develop sepsis at this stage, that at least her body seemed to be healing itself. Yet what could he ask of Maester Wolkan, truly? That he needed the man to give his sister a pelvic examination on the off chance there might be cause for it? That Jon had discovered the canal to her womb was a roughened, damaged place? Could he lie and claim he needed unguents for a servant girl? One whom Jon had used for his own pleasure, which was how he came to know such things? All of it sounded horrific, no matter the story. Jon felt at sea, having no idea how to proceed.

And was there anything Jon could even do for Sansa? Without Maester Wolkan to advise him, Jon didn’t think he could treat her himself. This was nothing he could ask Sam about, either. He had no one to consult on this, no one to tell him how he should handle his tormented sister bearing every kind of scar from her rapist imaginable and who was currently looking to her half-brother for some relief from the experience.

Jon swung his head to gaze in the direction of the crypts. He wanted to go down there, had for days. The stonemason was said to be nearing completion of their father’s statue and Jon wanted to see how well it captured his likeness. But he feared entering the family’s sacred space. What would the Stark spirits do with him now? He’d never really felt he belonged there, yet Jon had a need to see his father’s face. To ask forgiveness. To ask for mercy. He was only trying to take care of Sansa, Lord Eddard’s trueborn daughter.

He looked away and back to the Great Keep. She was his responsibility, Father expected that much of him. As the last of Ned Stark’s sons, Jon was entrusted with her care and well being. No matter how he maintained it, that was his most precious mission. There were dead men and dead children coming to destroy them all, to turn them into unnatural beasts, and Jon would not leave his sister to that fate. He would do all in his power to protect her, but he would nurture her, too, comfort her. Keep her safe. If only the task would cease getting more complicated.

The snow moved, it barreled towards Jon, and then red eyes opened and Ghost was running across the courtyard, his master in his sights. Jon kneeled down, his hand extended, happy to see his friend.

“Hey, boy. Where did you go?” Ghost’s massive head leaned in close to Jon, those eyes glowering with an apology. “Don’t leave me alone here, all right?” Jon told him. “The king in the North seems to have lost all his mates.”

* * *

Sansa stood by Jon’s desk and let the men debate their points over the map table. They’d been going over it for the last half hour, with Jon defending his initial plan. Sansa wanted to discuss the training, as Brienne had been critical of Ser Donnar’s tactics, but the group in the room would not let the matter go. Her eyes flitted from Jon to Petyr, trying to ascertain the plans at work between the two. Littlefinger’s offer of more men would come with conditions, she knew, but he hadn’t stated them as of yet and would likely wait for an opportune moment.

“They’re past Storrold’s Point, by now, that’s a given. It’s been a few months since the massacre at Hardhome. And while they move slow, there’s purpose there. I’m hoping to hear a report from Tormund soon, once they’ve set up a perimeter and checkpoints at Eastwatch, but the host has to be close to the Wall. Once they reach it, I don’t know how much time we have,” Jon explained.

“But surely the Wall will keep them at bay,” Lord Royce argued. “Its seven hundred feet of ice, designed specifically to keep the wildlings and the … Others out. We should be looking to the seas, see how they might get around the Wall, not over it.” He pointed to the map. “Send a party in a boat through the Bay of Seals, to check the coast.”

“They can climb,” Jon stated, looking up to the lord. He pointed to a spot between the Shadow Tower and Castle Black. “I mean, I climbed it. It’s not unscalable. It can be done. Only when they fall … most will get right back up.”

Littlefinger gave a dry laugh, his smirk in full force. “I beg your pardon, Your Grace. Did you just say you _climbed_ The Wall? As Lord Royce just pointed out, it’s over seven hundred feet of sheer ice.”

The look Jon gave him was startling in its open hostility. “Yes, I’m aware of that, Lord Baelish. And I did climb it.” He pointed back to the map. “We went up near Greyguard, about thirty-five leagues from Castle Black. Mance Rayder sent us as a raiding party, to hit from the South during their attack.” He looked down and shook his head. “Twenty of us went up, but not all of us made it to the other side. I watched a half dozen of them drop, tied together. But the Others …” his voice turned grave, his gaze far off. “I witnessed their lieutenants on the top of a mountain send hundreds of the dead over a cliff, they just threw themselves off. And then when they landed, what would have killed any living man, they just stood up and continued their attack.” Jon rubbed at his chin, deep in thought. “I don’t know if we can rely on the enchantments that are supposedly embedded in the ice.”

“Enchantments, you say?” Petyr echoed, his expression doubtful. “And how does one discover if these supposed enchantments are working? Of what they guard against? How does one fight a dead man, anyway?”

Jon cleared his throat, his manner testy as he threw his gloves to the corner of the table. “Well, Lord Baelish, I did already give instructions on how to prepare for that. We’re mining for dragonglass, we’re building artillery with an eye towards fire, and we'll dig trenches around the castle. As for enchantments, I am trying to find what I can about them. I have some people on that. The two thousand men that Lord Arryn can possibly spare, we would have use for them in open combat, for certain, but we need hands for building as well. We don’t know how much time we have. I can only make an estimation based on the Night King’s last appearance.”

“But we know there have been sightings south of the Wall,” Davos chimed in. “Small incidents reported, involving a few families in the Karhold, and from townsfolk on the outskirts of the Wolfswood. We don’t want to incite any panic, but there should be more scouting. I agree with the king that Last Hearth is the first place they’re likely to hit, so they need to be on constant watch there. Should we send some help to Lord Umber, Your Grace?”

Lord Royce made a noise of disgust in his throat, clearly not over the Umbers disloyalty and Sansa glanced quickly to Jon to see his reaction.

But Jon didn’t ruffle. “He replied to me. They have a ranging party going out on the morrow. He may be young, but he’s got a good team of men around him. They did almost beat us.” Jon kept his eyes down, not giving any credit to Petyr.

“And we trust these wildlings not to attack while they’re on our lands?” Royce warned. “With lands _you_ gave them?”

Jon sighed deeply. “Lord Royce, I’ve fought the wildlings for a long time. I lost most of my friends battling them. The Night’s Watch was decimated in that attack. But we’re talking about saving the North, and by extension, saving the rest of the kingdoms. If the dead get through us, there’s no stopping them. And the wildlings are part of the North. They’re just people. People with families, people who want their children safe. We leave them to their fates on the other side of the Wall and they’re just more meat for the Night King’s army. It’s like watching …” Jon struggled to find the words as the rest of them watched him. “Like watching a fire itself, spreading through the forest, consuming everything in its path. There’s no prejudice there, no discernment of any kind. Just blind obliteration.”

Lord Royce seemed to consider Jon’s words carefully. “My youngest son died for the Night’s Watch, you know,” he said softly. He sighed. “I always thought it was a wildling attack responsible. Deep in the Haunted Forest. He was a ranger. He went out with his party and never returned. I was told parts of his body were found and burned.”

Sansa narrowed her eyes. She hadn’t known that. The men all stared at the map but Jon raised his eyes to Lord Royce.

“I know about Ser Waymar, my lord. Heard the stories. My uncle Benjen disappeared while ranging as well. We never found the body.”

At the mention of Uncle Benjen, Sansa felt a pang in her heart, once again feeling like her and Jon were the last of the Starks. She moved closer to him, pointed down at the map to the Kingsroad.

“Lord Baelish, you said it took you just over a fortnight to reach Moat Cailin from the Eyrie. If Lord Arryn sends another two thousand men, when can we expect them to reach Winterfell? They’ll have to deal with the snows now, and I imagine,” she looked to Lord Royce, “that it won’t be easy travel for many of them.”

“It may take a moon, but we have much to find out in the meantime. Perhaps the Wall is a bastion of security and not likely to be penetrated, after all. I agree with Lord Royce that focusing on the seas around the Wall would be worth investigating.” He looked to Jon, pursing his lips before his next suggestion. “I do wonder if you’re considering the likelihood of Lannister forces heading towards the North to engage us. If they strike for the Vale first, well, I would hope we could count on your army to unite with us in battle, Your Grace. I did declare for House Stark, after all. We need to protect each other in this fight, as they come at us on both sides.”

Sansa’s eyes darted to Jon, worried that he’d say the wrong thing. He began to speak, his face hard.

“Lord Baelish, there is no greater threat than what we face from –”

Sansa put her hand on his waist to temper him, his cape flung back over his shoulder so she could press her hand over his belt. She let her gloved fingers slide down to his hip, sending out a caution that he shouldn’t disregard what Baelish and the Vale offered. Jon’s body went stiff, his mouth open as words failed him. She saw him blink, before swallowing hard, his eyes going unfocused. Instantly, Sansa backed off, removing her hand from him. They all heard him take a sharp breath. Jon shook his head, looking back down to the map.

“My apologies, my lord, I’ve been a bit lacking in sleep. What is it you’re asking of me?”

Petyr looked to her, meeting her gaze with something curious in his eyes, but she gave away nothing, her features set in their usual mask.

“Nothing to worry about, Your Grace. We can discuss it another time, when I have more news.”

******

It was after the meeting had adjourned and Sansa had left quickly, on her way to the kitchens as she trekked across the covered bridge to tend to the pups again. She was halfway across it when she heard the heavy thumping of boots behind her. Suddenly, Jon was coming up beside her and he took hold of her elbow, moving her faster along.

“Can I see you up on the battlements, please?” he muttered.

Sansa turned to see the profile of his face, and it was set darkly, his jaw tight.

“Why? What do you want to discuss now?” She had followed Jon’s request and not challenged him before Littlefinger and Royce, she didn’t know what else she’d done to irritate him.

“Just keep walking.”

A few servants were coming towards them, and they smiled and bowed their heads to the two of them. “Your Grace, good day to you,” one of them greeted. “And to you, Lady Stark.” Jon smiled back tightly, his eyes vacant, but never easing up on the iron grip his fingers had curled around her arm. He directed her to the stairwell leading up to the parapet and even during their climb up he remained quiet. It wasn’t until they were outside again, atop the walls and looking out over their lands, that Jon let go of her, pushing her in front of him.

“What was that about?” he hissed closely, his expression now furious as Sansa turned to face him.

“What? I didn’t say anything. I let you talk and make your plans with them.”

“Don’t play games with me, Sansa, you know that’s not what I meant,” he sneered.

“I don’t know what you’re angry about.” She recalled the way he’d stiffened up. “If I did something wrong, then just tell me what it is.”

Jon’s face zoomed in close to hers, and he hissed through gritted teeth once more, a harsh whisper. “You _touched_ me.”

Sansa let her confusion show. “And? What of it? I’m your sister. Am I suddenly not allowed to touch the king anymore?”

He paused in his glaring, his forehead creasing with some alarm. “Are you serious with this?”

She grew annoyed. “Of course I am. Why are you upset?”

Jon shook his head in disbelief. “Sansa, you can’t touch me like _that_. Not in a room full of men I’m trying to command. _Especially_ when I’m in the middle of talking,” he emphasized. “I was … thrown off, it was jarring.”

“Because I put my hand on your waist? I was only trying to keep you from saying something stupid to Littlefinger.”

Her brother’s eyes widened with his anger, his features darkening even further.

“You can be too familiar, Sansa. That wasn’t the touch of a sister to her brother. It is possessive. You touch me like – ” He paused as his brow furrowed, the wind outside biting and shrill, but his voice still intimate. His tone turned grave. “You touch me like a lover.”

Sansa frowned. “I didn’t mean to.” She didn’t even know what that meant. “No one would have noticed, probably, if you hadn’t suddenly gone off somewhere mid-sentence.”

“Of course they noticed. Are you purposely being thick?” His mouth had twisted into a sickened grimace as he looked away from her over the grounds. “You think your friend Baelish was unobservant?”

The mention of Petyr brought her up sharply. “I’m sorry, Jon. I didn’t realize. What that would look like.”

Jon finally softened, and he looked at her in beleaguerment, as if he didn’t know what to do with her. He came closer to put his hand to the side of her face, holding her there.

“Sansa, you told me that when the High Sparrow charged Cersei for adultery, they marched her naked through the streets, where the people jeered at her, threw shit at her. A woman who has lain with her brother and bore him three bastards, two of whom ended up on the Throne.” He shook his head sadly. “What do you think the Northern lords would do to Ned Stark’s bastard upon discovering the things that I’ve done to his trueborn daughter? You think they’ll want me for their king, then?”

Sansa felt an icy chill, and drew her furs closer to block her body from the winds. Sansa stared into Jon’s eyes, her remorse laid bare. She wouldn’t want to be responsible for anything bad happening to her brother.

“We have to be careful,” he spoke lowly, his mouth close enough to hers for a kiss. Sansa stood stiffly but a shudder ran through her. She understood the ramifications of their actions suddenly, realizing that Jon would bear the brunt of it, were rumors to start. It had been her decision, to have begun this. And she would have taken their derision if it had come to that, would have walked naked through the streets to be humiliated, because at least it had been her own choice. A woman was punished for these things, she understood that. But Jon wasn’t any man. She heard Littefinger in her head again. A bastard born in the South. That Jon needed her support to remain king.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, afraid that she’d put her brother in a precarious position. “It won’t happen again.”

******

Sansa walked through the servant’s hall, moving quickly but on alert for anyone coming ahead. It was late enough that most of their guests had retired to their quarters for bed. She’d sent her handmaidens away after her bath, once they’d combed and plaited her wet hair, cut her nails, rubbed her teeth clean, powdered her with perfumed talc. It was the first time she’d ever disrobed completely in front of Mhaegen and Taria, and she’d caught their frightened glances to each other, yet Sansa had felt a boldness running through her as she climbed into the tub. Jon didn’t hide himself, and neither would she. That she survived Ramsay was something for her to derive strength from, she refused to be ashamed.

And she didn’t want to be ashamed of the things she did with her brother. He’d reminded her that what they did was a risk, illicit and dangerous. But all she had gained from it felt good, felt powerful, and she didn’t want it to stop. Jon had given her a great gift; Sansa wouldn’t lose sight of that. She wouldn’t allow anyone to take her brother from her. Sansa wanted to show Jon how much she looked forward to these trysts, how spending evenings with him gave her the first happiness she’d had in a very long time. She put her hand to the furred collar of her robe and stroked it, her fingers running down over her breasts, nipples hardened to points already, and she knew her body was eager for the things he would perform on her. All through her bath her thoughts had been on Jon, on what it meant for her when he let her touch his body, his member, putting her hands wherever she desired.

When she came to his door, she looked on either side of her to make sure she was alone before entering. Sansa swept inside, closing the door quickly behind her. Walking to his desk, she saw the chair empty and frowned. As she came into his bedchambers, she expected to see him in his bath, but it wasn’t in the room and she spun around in a panic to see if he’d gone.

“Sansa.”

Her head whipped towards the bed, where Jon lay under his covers, a small book opened in his hands. The room was lit with many candles and it was brighter than usual by his bed where he read. Sansa saw her brother had disrobed, his torso was bare above the furs, and she suspected the rest of him was, too. She smiled warmly, walking to him, her hands already on the sash at her waist. Jon’s hair was down, his curls framing his face like a cherub. He watched her as she came nearer to him, and when Sansa opened her robe to reveal her nudity underneath, he didn’t turn shocked, but gazed at her fully while she dropped it to the floor. She practically ran the rest of the way to his bed, and climbed on it quickly, her knees on either side of him and her mouth dropping to his as he raised his face to hers. Jon kissed her so tenderly, while her hunger grew. She took hold of his wrist and pulled his hand towards the center of her, pushing it to cup her sex.

“This is for you,” she whispered into his mouth, feeling how wet she was for him. Jon stroked his fingers over her there, dipped the tip of one inside her, and Sansa’s tongue pressed deeper to his, her arousal soaring. There were times he drew such excitement in her body, she wondered what it would feel like to have him inside her. Wondered what it would feel like to move with him, the way he’d moved with the red woman, so needful and primal. But she knew she wasn’t ready for such things, the memories of Ramsay still trapped within her.

“You smell very nice,” Jon rumbled into her skin, tipping his head down to kiss her neck and nibble her there. He licked a swath up her throat which landed at the end of her chin, where he bussed the tip of it. Sansa dropped her head to capture his lips, feasting on them. She wanted to suckle them till they were swollen, till he looked as pouty as he’d ever been. It was a feature of her brother’s that seemed decadent, one which would make women, and some men, look at him in coquettish turns. But she could feel Jon still stroking her cunt, coaxing her, and she desired both his fingers and his mouth on her this evening. The pleasure of it the night before had been euphoric.

“No bath for you then?” she asked when she finally pulled her mouth away.

“I had one earlier,” he smiled. “They took it away already, so you can’t take on the chore for yourself.”

“I know you like it when I bathe you,” she teased.

He smirked at her. “Oh, you think so, do you?” A hand curved over her bottom and Sansa thrilled at the way he touched her, remembering how she’d returned it only that morning, her palm on his arse giving her a feeling of being in control, getting to guide her brother to sate her. Before Jon had grown angry with her.

“I’ve seen the way you lean into my touch,” she noted. Jon’s smile flattened to a hard line, suddenly somber, and Sansa cursed herself for the misstep.

“I wanted to show you that I was sorry,” Sansa said, referring to her nudity and her preparations, while sitting boldly in his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck. “For this afternoon. I promise I’ll only touch you here, in all the ways that I want to touch you.”

Jon nodded at her, still serious. “I want us to be able to trust each other, Sansa.”

“You _can_ trust me,” she said immediately. “I swear to you, Jon.”

“And do you trust me?”

“Of course I do.” She hated that he might not believe her sincerity, saw the flicker of doubt in his eyes. Sansa leaned over to kiss him deeply, to show him again that she needed him, but Jon pushed her back, a pleasant smile on his face.

“Good. Sansa, I’m wondering if perhaps … if you trust me enough to try something a bit different.” She wrinkled her nose, not understanding. “If you would indulge me, by allowing me to … kiss you and touch you, in a new place,” he explained.

The suggestion raised her suspicion for a moment. “What new place?” But then she reminded herself that she trusted Jon with her life. “I mean, I suppose it's all right. If I get to kiss you in a new place, too,” she negotiated. Jon’s placid expression dropped into concern instantly.

“You don’t have to kiss me anywhere, Sansa. This is for you.”

She didn’t want it to be just about her, however. She wanted Jon to feel good as well, from what she would give him. And she wanted to see it.

“It’s only fair, Jon. I want you to have your pleasure, too.”

He looked surprised for a beat, before quickly schooling his features into one of pleasantness again, his smile wooden.

“Sansa, it’s not necessary. But if you will let me explore you, then you can do as you wish.”

Another thrill lit up her spine and flushed her breasts. Sansa shifted off of Jon and onto her knees as she threw his covers back, seeing all of him as she went to sit on his lap again. She noticed he wasn’t hard yet and she endeavored to change that, throwing her excitement into another kiss. Jon let her this time, taking her mouth and her tongue so generously, his hand to the back of her head as he held her to him.

Then he put his hand to her waist and pushed her off of him, leaning back to break their kiss. “Sansa, I need you to turn the other way this time, to face the door.”

It was an odd request but she had promised Jon that she’d allow him this fancy. “You want me to lie down?” she asked as he moved off of the bed, moving his book to the table beside him that held his lamp.

“Actually, no,” he said quickly, kneeling to the bed’s edge. “I need you on your hand and knees.”

Something cold rushed through her, down her back and into the pit of her belly. “What do you mean?”

Jon pursed his lips and swallowed visibly before he answered her, looking down the length of her. “I just need you this way.” And he put his hand to her bottom again, maneuvering her body to roll over on her knees. With another hand to her waist, he pushed her up into the position he asked for, Sansa facing the door of his bedchambers with Jon behind her. She didn’t like it. She wanted to see his face as he worked.

Jon put both of his hands on the backs of her thighs, right under her arse, and Sansa startled with a high squeak. Immediately, she sat down on her side, shocked at her blunder. She looked to the door again, and then to Jon, panicked that she’d been too loud. He put his hand to rest comfortingly on her thigh.

“It’s all right. I sent them to either end of the corridor to man their stations,” he said, guessing the nature of her distress.

“You mean they’re not guarding the king anymore?” She didn’t like that, either.

“They are, Sansa, they’re just not right outside, for the time being.”

“Well, how long do you plan on having them away from your door?”

Jon gave her a curious look, his mouth opened in surprise. “I suppose that depends on you, Sansa.” He shrugged, narrowing his eyes. “Are you planning to come to me _every_ night?”

She felt the heat in her face instantly, her body flushed with shame for a moment before she dispelled it with a shake of her head. “I don’t know,” she said haughtily. The need to come on her brother’s mouth was suddenly strong within her. But Jon’s hand stroked the back of her soothingly, making hushing noises between his teeth.

“Hey. I’m not … I didn’t mean it like that.” He suddenly leaned down and kissed her below her hip and the sensation shot off another spark inside her, lighting up her breasts and below. Jon stroked his hand down her flesh to her cunt again, holding her there as he kissed lower on her bum. Sansa wanted his kisses to continue lower, so she did as he asked and righted her body back to a horse’s stance, her arse to him. Then she leaned all the way over, wanting to show him her trust, laying the side of her face on his bed as she spread her legs wider for him.

“Like that?” she asked, but when she looked over to Jon’s face, the expression she saw there was a mixture of horror and dismay.

“Oh. You don’t – it doesn’t need to be so … just keep your head up.” He moved her as he spoke, sliding a palm over her breast to lift from her chest, one hand settling low on her belly to steady her. When she was positioned the way he wanted, he lifted her with his hand, pushing her up from her belly, arm between her legs and angling her on the bed until he was satisfied. She heard him breathe out and then she felt both of his hands on her, stroking over either cheek of her arse until they glided down to the tops of her thighs and he gripped her, spreading her for him. When he pressed his mouth to her, Sansa closed her eyes and sighed. It always felt so good. He licked her, his tongue exploring her and his fingers widening her slit as he’d done before. It created such a striking sensation, and to know that she directed this, that nothing would batter into her here, only her brother’s healing tongue, was like a salve that would erase all of her wounds.

From the way she knelt, Jon came at her from a descending angle, his tongue able to penetrate her more deeply, and she suddenly tensed up, an intrusion of rough hands on her pervading her thoughts, her body remembering the way she’d been split open. Sansa tossed her head, trying to shake those memories from her, but then Jon used his thumbs to widen her further, his mouth pressing to the patch of skin between her cunt and her arse, and Sansa held her breath, her eyes squeezing tighter.

“Is it all right if I put my finger in you again?” she heard Jon ask, his voice a soft murmur from far away.

“I think so,” she heard herself say. When Jon filled her, so slowly, so carefully, she remembered where she was and let herself breathe. He kissed her fully again, his lips suckling that place on her that made the skies light up in her head. But as he slid out of her, his finger traveled to a higher spot, circling her there, a kiss to the flesh inside of a cheek and Sansa sucked in a breath, shutting out the noises that were rising in her ears, the decibel a vibration that shuddered through her.

_No! I said you can't close your eyes, Theon!_

“Wait, stop,” she cried, dropping on her side again as she pulled free from Jon’s grip. Tears sprang in her eyes and her breaths came out of her raggedly. “Stop, I don’t like that.” Her voice was stronger now, resolute. When she opened her eyes, Jon was staring back at her with a worried face, his manner instantly attentive. He held up his hands, palms toward her, in a show of servility.

“I’m sorry,” he rushed. “It’s all right, I’m … I won’t touch you there.”

She studied her brother, wondering what his motives were now.

“What were you doing?” She could prepare better if she knew what he was trying to make her feel. “Why would you … why would you put your mouth there?”

Jon’s eyes widened, dropping open his mouth as if about to speak, but no words came from him for several beats. He closed his eyes finally.

“Sansa, I – I apologize. I should be more forthright with you. You deserve that.”

“I don’t understand.” She watched as Jon sat on the bed with her, and he grabbed her hand to lace her fingers with his.

“I know from our talks that Ramsay hurt you very badly, Sansa,” he began tenderly. He looked up at her, his eyes soulful as they shone brilliantly in the candlelight. “You are my sister. It is my duty to take care of you. And if you’ve sustained injuries from the things he did … I want to make sure you’re seen to. That you’re healing properly. I only want you to be well.”

“What’s wrong with me?” She felt an instant panic, saw the blood, so much blood, thick and clotting, all over her sheets, on the floor. Saw Theon’s horrified eyes.

“Nothing,” Jon said quickly. “There’s nothing wrong with you. But … not all of your scars are in places you can see. I simply wanted to – ” he put a hand over his eyes with a groan. “ _Gods_ , I don’t know if I can do this.”

Sansa squeezed the hand in hers tighter. “ _Tell me_. What is it?”

Jon shook his head again, his face filled with his misery. “Sansa. When he … when he put that thing inside you, you told me you bled. It does not sound as though he allowed Wolkan to see to you. But how long did you bleed? Did you lay with fever? It’s important to know if you suffered through any infection.”

“I don’t like to think about that,” she said, and Jon cupped her cheek softly, drawing her face to his.

“I understand, Sansa. It was terrible, what you went through. I know what it feels like to try and banish those memories from your mind, and yet have everything around you remind you of it incessantly. It feels impossible. But can you at least assure me that you’re all right now? If he … if he cut you somewhere deep, if he – fuck, I know this isn’t what you want from me. I’m so sorry. I don’t know how to do this at all.”

“He didn’t use it there.” Sansa still held on to her brother, but took hold of the hand that cupped her face as well, realizing at last what he was trying to do. Jon scanned her face greedily, gleaning what he could from her, and she felt a calm return to her. “The dagger.” She pulled Jon’s hand down between her legs again, wanting Ramsay gone, wanting only what Jon would give her. “Only here. I bled, but then it stopped.”

Jon nodded grimly, eyes cast down to where he held her. “Thank you, Sansa. For telling me.”

“All you had to do was ask,” she told him, with a raise of her eyebrows.

“Aye, you’re right. I … just didn’t know how.”

“I ask you hard things all the time, and you’re always honest with me,” she said, knowing that she wanted to be that for Jon, as well, that from now on they would always be honest with each other.

“Right.” He kept his gaze to the bed. “Then can you do me another favor?”

“Possibly.” She hoped it was something she'd like.

“Sansa … when we want to make ourselves _feel_ good,” Jon finally looked up to meet her eyes. “That’s all right. It’s perfectly fine. A natural thing that we all do.”

“Jon.” Sansa’s eyes widened, oddly embarrassed as she realized what he was talking of. “What are you asking me?”

Jon closed his eyes again as if in pain, his discomfort blatant even with her assurances. “You do understand what I’m talking about, I hope.”

“I do,” was all she would add, now eager for Jon to stop all of this strangeness. “But I still don’t know what you’re asking me.”

“You must be careful, Sansa. The … objects you use, they may hurt you. Your body is healing, and I don’t want you to disrupt that.”

Her skin heated up, her face hot. “Who told you such things? Why would you say that?”

“Because I have to. It’s awful, I know, for you to hear this. It wasn’t an invasion into your privacy, I can promise you. Just do this for me, please.”

She stared at Jon in amazement. If he could put his mouth where he would on her, then she supposed it was not an outrageous question for him to ask. But the information he gave her was intriguing.

“So … if we all do it, then that must mean you do, too?”

Now it was Jon’s turn to blush, and to see that shade of pink on her brother was something special, indeed.

“Well, of course.” He tugged gently at her braid hanging over her shoulder. “I’m not any different.”

“Septa Mordane always told us it was a sin against the gods, the Old and the new.” Jon made a doubtful face, and shook his head.

“It’s not a sin. It’s just … it’s a function of the body. A need we all have.”

She moved closer to him, shifting so she could sit in his lap. Jon leaned back against his pillows to let her. “Then you do enjoy pleasure,” she stated, happy to have confirmation. “That’s good to know.”

“Sansa,” he smiled slowly, “I never said I don’t like it. I … I spent a lot of time on my own, you know. And when you’re surrounded by a hundred brothers, you learn a lot about these things.” He glanced up at her, eyes crinkled. “You don’t always have to come to me. You can make yourself feel as much pleasure as you want. Just be careful about it.”

“But I can’t,” she said plainly, the thought of not being able to come to Jon giving her a catch in her throat. “The way you can make me … orgasm – no one’s ever done that for me. I’ve never felt that good on my own. It’s always been so – frustrating.” She sighed in longing, wishing Jon’s mouth was on her again. Jon tipped up her face by the chin to meet her gaze.

“I can show you, if you'd like.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2/4/20 So I wasn't really feeling this chapter, but wanted to stick to the weekly schedule. It was supposed to include a lot more to this last scene but it was getting to be too big of a chapter, with quite a bit heavy stuff, so I split it. Consequently, this one felt like not a lot happened, or a bit anti-climactic. I'm still trying to get a bead on the timeline, without having to embellish too much. It could get frustrating in the show trying to determine how much time had truly passed from one setting/scene to another. Anyhow, next chapter will be full on and hopefully have a bit more to think about.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long delay. I had a lot of traveling and a lot of work to do. Hopefully, I can get back on schedule and get my shit together. 
> 
> My deepest gratitude to my girl, firesign, for all of her continued support. If you haven't read [In The Arms Of The Ocean](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20116984) yet, I urge you to do so, as it is incredibly gorgeous and heartbreaking and hot all rolled up into one. (Although I am aware that many of you here came from that fic to check this one out, so thank you for giving this one a shot.)
> 
> This chapter going out to Thesongofthewhitewolf. I love you, too.

**xi.**

Sansa blinked back at Jon. Her mind was still trying to decipher how Jon knew about the candlestick holder tucked under her mattress, and more importantly, how often her brother pleasured himself, yet her thoughts were now reeling with this newest suggestion.

“ _What_ will you show me?” Sansa shifted in Jon’s lap so they faced each other, her hands on his shoulders.

“How to give yourself an orgasm,” he clarified, watching her shrewdly.

“And how exactly do you plan to do that?”

Jon’s gaze scanned the bed and then back at her, while rubbing his hand affectionately over the top of her leg. “However you’d like, Sansa. If you want, you can lie beside me, or stay here, in my lap, and I can simply guide you.” Pointing to the end of the bed, “or you can lie down that way and I’ll move to between your legs.” He took her hand at his shoulder and entwined their fingers together, bringing them downward so they could both cup her cunt this time. “We’ll do it together.”

A grin lifted the side of her mouth with her creeping amusement. A moment ago, Jon had been so flustered attempting to discuss her masturbatory habits yet give him a task and he was suddenly at ease, in command of his emotions once more. She could see how his duty drove him, her brother adhered to their father’s creed above all else after all, but Sansa didn’t want to be Jon’s duty. She wanted him to be sated, too; to find comfort in her cunt, in her body, under her hands, with her mouth. A voice hissed in her ear. _Watch those teeth, wife, or I’ll have to get the knife again._ The reminder sobered her, and she shifted again, leaning back against Jon’s chest, her eyes forward as she opened her legs.

“Like this?”

“All right. We can do it this way.” Jon moved, too, craning back further into the pillows and pairing his legs to hers by sliding them up to the insides of her thighs so he could spread them both wider. Sansa’s feet were lifted off the bed as her brother’s muscled legs held her open, his fingers trailing backwards to glide down over her stomach to her twat. He put the flat of his palm against the thigh bearing Ramsay’s sick note to her, caressing her. “Is this comfortable enough?”

“Yes,” she sighed contentedly. Jon’s touch was always soothing, another surprising discovery, that such a strong warrior would possess a lightness and sensitivity in his hands. But that touch could also direct her desire, could whip her into frenzy as he brought her new depths of pleasure. She watched as his longest finger stroked her, sliding down her opening to capture the slick she’d already trickled, the anticipation of what was to come rising higher in her just to behold this view. His finger swirled about, oscillating the part of her cunt that Jon liked to spend much time with.

“Why don’t you show me how you like to touch yourself, then?” he said, his voice a soft burr of encouragement in her ear.

“Me?” His request surprised her, although she had no idea what she’d been expecting of this. “I don’t … what should I do?” Her embarrassment was piqued, an intrusive vulnerability heightened as she recalled that he knew something about her practices.

“What makes you feel good?” he coaxed, that long elegant finger circling the floret that seemed to flood her with arousal. She closed her eyes and thought of the many ways she’d like her brother to make her feel good.

“I like it when you suck me there,” she said confidently, pushing away her self-consciousness.

Jon was quiet for a moment. “All right. But what about you? When you’re on your own? How do you like to put your hands on your body?”

“I like to touch my breasts,” she admitted. Sansa grabbed hold of Jon’s hand that lay upon her belly and brought it up higher to cup a breast, an emphasis on her point. “To pinch my nipples.” Just to say it out loud to Jon provided its own coursing thrill and she felt herself soak his exploring fingers all the more, as she guided Jon to cajole her nipple to its peak. He did it tenderly, his thumb and forefinger coming together again and again over her as she strained with want.

“Like this?”

“Yes.” Her voice sounded strong and sure in the room and Sansa felt herself float on the power in her, that he gave her, by delighting in her body’s call. She wanted to coat her brother with her arousal, to have it stream from his plying fingers and let it flow over him, to paint his mouth and body with it, just because she could, to show him that this was hers, that she was gifting it to him, and she would let her desire be her strength. Jon took away the finger over her sex and she heard him suck on it, and that escalated her desire even more, before Jon took her hand again and brought her back to work her small bean for herself.

“Can you feel this? Right here?”

“I can,” she answered, still floating. Jon brought her finger to her mouth.

“Wet it for me,” he directed, and she did, putting it between her lips as she had done for him before. She let her spit douse it, some of it dribbling from her mouth as Jon pulled it away and immediately put it to that palpitating button again, its demand incessant. He moved her hand so she could swirl it, and there was a thickness there that she had only ever felt inside of herself, yet here it was, proof that she was excited for this, that she was in charge totally and completely of her encroaching climax.

“It feels different,” she noted aloud as she lay back against Jon, her eyes closed. “Harder.”

“It fills with blood, the way a man’s … well, there are some similarities, one could say.”

“I always thought that it was just a hole here.” Like a wound, a woman’s burden. “Waiting to be filled.” With a man’s cock. With his seed. For a baby to grow. A dumping ground for men to relieve themselves.

There was a thoughtful silence again before her brother spoke.

“Did you not … was there no one with whom you could ever talk about these things?”

“Like who? Cersei? She told me it was a weapon, what I had between my legs. Obviously, one I used very poorly.” She thought about her constant terror in the Red Keep, trying to make herself agreeable to everyone so that they wouldn’t hurt her, yet so often being singled out anyway.

“Let’s not discuss Cersei here,” Jon noted, his voice heavy as he guided her finger. “What about Shae?”

“She was my handmaiden. That’s not really the type of discussion one has with your servants.” She recalled the morning after her first wedding, how Shae had been cold to her for most of the day. “I hadn’t even bled yet when we left with Father. I never saw my mother again and she was murdered right after I married.” She tried to imagine having such talks with her mother, how to please one’s husband in the marital bed, but it hurt her too much to think on it and Sansa opened her eyes, taken away from her mounting pleasure.

Jon stopped his motions, turning his head to speak into her neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to stir up bad memories. Don’t think about that. Just close your eyes and think of what you want to feel.” He stroked her breast, stroking her cunt, too, sending her on a tide of sensations.

“I want to feel your mouth on me,” she said boldly. She resumed pressing and teasing that spot in her while Jon slipped around the rest of her cunt, his fingers moving up to split her flesh so she could feel cold air on that crinkling nub. Her head rested against the warm nook of his shoulder and neck. “I like the way your tongue fucks me.”

There was a pause in his movement. She heard Jon breathe in sharply. “You like that?” he asked roughly.

“Yes.” And that decisiveness resounded through her. She moved her finger down, to nudge against Jon’s, before she dipped it inside of her, a surging feeling of righteousness presiding, claiming it as her own. Her finger traveled deep within her until she hit too far and felt tears prick her eyes, an overwhelming sense of helplessness crashing into her as she recalled what was done here, feeling it grip her, that pain and shame. A sob rose in her throat, her shoulders shuddering with the onslaught. Jon immediately grabbed hold of her arm.

“Are you all right, Sansa? Did I hurt you?” Jon’s worry for her always present, a comfort in itself.

“You weren’t the one who hurt me,” she said in a hoarse, pitiful cry. “I feel him sometimes, still. You make it different. The pain isn’t there when you touch me.”

“Do you want me to touch you now?” His breath over her ear.

“ _Yessss_ ,” she hissed, a demand, her need for him consuming her as she gulped back her tears.

There was a sudden knocking on the door and both her and Jon startled, Sansa’s eyes springing open in alarm as the jump in her flesh made her heart race.

“Your Grace. Apologies for disturbing you, but your direwolf is here,” came a muffled voice on the other side of the wood.

Jon sat up straight, pushing her up as well. “Just stay here quietly,” he whispered. Disentangling their legs, he slid out from under her and got out of bed. “I’ll be there in a moment,” he called. Jon strode nude across his room, and Sansa saw the hard length of him bounce with his steps, where he reached for his nightshirt across a winged chair. Quickly fitting it over his head, Jon pulled it down until the hem reached mid-thigh, the tassels at his chest left untied so the neck of it stayed open. He went to the door, unlocking the key that sat guard, and opened it just wide enough to let Ghost through. The beast loped towards the hearth, turning its great head to regard Sansa as he made his way.

“Thank you, Torren. You can go back to your post now.”

“Of course, Your Grace. If you’re not needin’ anything else?”

“I’m fine. Good night.”

Jon closed the door and locked it again, taking a pause before he turned back towards her. Sansa bent her body forward, stretching to the other end of the bed with her eyes locked to Jon’s, his face darkened even in the glow of the candles. That he hadn’t dimmed the room as was his wont felt like a momentary luxury, that she could see all of him completely. He came closer to her and she lay on her back, head at the other end of his bed with her legs open for him. The interruption had dispelled her morbid mood and now she was eager to feel his tongue on her, wanting to touch him as well. To have the freedom to create the same sensations in Jon as he did for her had become a necessary aspiration for Sansa.

He pressed his knuckles to the bed as he watched her, his gaze roving across her body in a way that made Sansa’s desire spike violently, the tightening in her nipples and the drenching of her cunt solely due to that look. She raised a leg so she could rest the heel of her foot to the headboard behind the pillows and Jon instantly moved his head between them, a shoulder pushed up under her thigh to hold her. He kissed her there, long laps of his tongue over her a few times before glancing back up at her face.

“You want me to finish you off? Or would you like to … do you want to touch yourself while I do it?” He’d put his hand to her, sweeping up from her bum to lay his palm flat against the beating pulse of her.

Sansa wanted her brother to do anything and everything that would banish her grim horrors. She wondered about his talent for this, how he was able to intuit what she needed so well. She sucked on her middle finger again, just as he’d instructed her before, and moved it down to press upon her newest interest. With the two fingers on either side of it, she split her plush and fattened folds so her brother could see her pulsing for him, glistening for him, giving him full exposure to her. He moved his hand lower, his eyes straying to where she guided him.

“I want you to kiss me here, your tongue in me while I stroke myself.” She took hold of the hand that pressed to the bed and tugged, making Jon shift his weight so he would follow her, then making him grip her other breast this time. “Pinch me here,” she directed.

Jon’s eyes were hooded with want as he stared down to her breast, watching himself squeeze her nipple with his fingers until she opened her mouth from the jolt of pleasure it gave her, the beating in her cunt growing stronger. He bared his teeth to her, a suck of his breath and a hunger there in his face; she heard the grunt in his throat. Sansa looked down, annoyed that she couldn’t see his stiffened cock, to see that it swelled with his need for her, the evidence that she wasn’t alone in this.

“Take that off,” she whispered. “I want to see you.”

Jon straightened, rising up on his knees as he dragged his nightshirt up from the back of his shoulders, drawing it up over his head, a curtain rising up on a decadent show as his body was revealed to her once more. His torso was strong and defined, yet even with those horrid gashes it had its own beauty, in the tapered lines of his waist, the hard planes of his stomach. Sansa sat up swiftly, wanting to taste him, and she slung her hands about him as he dropped the shirt to the side of the bed. She pressed her face to his chest and tongued his nipple, swirling it slowly, remembering how she had wanted to bite it the night that he’d slept through her exploration of him.

“Sansa, don’t,” he said, low and gruff.

But she disregarded him, toughening it up as she pulled at it with her lips, the gratification of feeling that disc hardening to a point just as hers did a reward that excited her. Her hands were still crossed at the small of his back, while he let her suckle on his nipple, his hand cupping the back of her head as if he was feeding her, and Sansa let her touch glide down his backside, enjoying the tactile pleasure in the fullness of his bum as she fondled each globe, as curvaceous as any woman’s.

“Why don’t you lie down again? Let’s go back to what we were doing,” he coaxed, moving his grip to her wrists to take her hands off his rear end.

“But I want to touch you,” she replied, pulling her head back to raise her face to him. “Why don’t you lay alongside me, in the other direction, so we can touch each other at the same time?” An image loomed in her head, of her putting her mouth on Jon, how that might feel with her in control of it.

Jon frowned at the idea. “This is taking us away from our purpose here,” he feebly reminded her.

“What purpose is that? You seem eager for me to diddle myself.” His eyes widened at her words, and Sansa derived a certain thrill in seeing his continued shock at her frankness. She understood what the word meant now, and she wanted to resume it, but knew it would be better with her brother attached to her cunt.

“I simply want you to feel good,” he claimed.

“Well, wonderful, so we’re both in agreement.” She lay back again, propping herself up on her elbows this time as she spread her legs for him. “Am I wet enough? Or should I spit on my finger again?”

Jon stared between her legs, his mouth a hard line. “You’re very wet,” he said quietly. “Do you still want my tongue inside of you?”

“Very much so.” Sansa put her fingers to her sex again, diving into the damp well of her to spread enough of her arousal around, pushing on that button as she watched Jon lean down, his belly on the bed with his legs hanging off the edge while he moved his head between her thighs. He sat up again, taking her by the hips and jerking her body suddenly to an angle, then going back to his position above her cunt, angling his own body with hers so he could lie down properly.

“Let me see you, then,” he said in a throaty request. “Pleasure yourself while my mouth is on you.”

Sansa smiled down at him once more, hoping it was a seductive one. She opened herself for him, letting him watch her rub at her swollen bits until his eyes were drooped as before, a dark desire descending over his features, his mouth opening to let his tongue jut out, stiffened so that the point of it curled up, ready to sweep across her. When he licked her, Sansa wanted to close her eyes and let her head fall back to revel in the sensations, but she was afraid to lose sight of Jon’s expression, the need she saw there driving her to rub harder, to tweak that carpal of flesh with a pinch of her fingers as Jon froze to watch it, his eyes locked to her actions. Sansa raised her bottom to give him more access, pressing her heels to the bed, still fingering herself, and then Jon’s tongue was in her cunt, was sliding in and out of her, Jon bobbing his head as he fucked her with it, his eyes now closed. She moaned to see him move thusly, with such devotion to the act, something in the way he went about it making her think of the way a woman was supposed to pleasure a man’s organ. A resurgence of lust shot through her, she felt herself flood her brother with a fresh bout of cream, and the need to climax was prevalent, her body singing with it.

Jon was shaking his head from side to side, burrowing deeper into her, his hands now under her arse to hold her up, rocking her with him, and Sansa’s fingers worked furiously over her flesh, splitting it, stroking, butting up against Jon’s mouth as he gorged on her, either her pleasure or his spit now trickling down through the crevice under her cunt, pooling to the mattress below. Jon sounded a thick growl wet in his throat and then suddenly her insides were clenching, everything pulling tight with her peak upon her, her brother lapping her fluids convulsively while she heard whiny breaths leave her, stifled moans that she kept in her chest. It came too soon, a disappointment there as she dropped to the bed, ankles crossing behind Jon’s neck to pull him closer to her.

“Gods, I want more,” she breathed, her chest heaving with them.

Jon cuffed his hands about her calves and dragged her legs away, straightening to sit up on his knees. “That wasn’t enough?” he questioned, breathing heavily himself.

“It wasn’t like when you suck on me,” she explained. “Those are quite glorious.” She leaned up on the bends of her arms again. “Can I have another?”

“Sansa,” he whined, looking ready to refuse as he pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Give us a moment, please.” He wiped his mouth and beard with the back of his hand, flexing his fingers as was his habit while he looked down at her. “Why don’t I lay back under you and you can straddle me,” he said with some weariness.

“Yes, I liked that.” She recalled that first night with him, how he’d cared for her, and wanted to feel her release that deeply again.

“Fine, then. Move out of the way.” He batted at her ankle and she shifted for him, watching Jon drop himself to the bed with his head to the end of it, where hers had been moments ago. He rolled on his back with a huff, raising his arms above his head, and Sansa was struck again by the taut, aesthetic lines of her brother’s body. He smacked at the top of his chest a few times, just below his neck. “Alright, climb on.”

“Am I going to ride you?” she japed, smirking at his oddness.

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” he rumbled. Sansa peered down to his cock, it jutted out partially with his hardness, and that desire to kiss it rose in her again. Instead, she leaned down to kiss where his hip bone poked at the edge of his pelvis. Jon seized up in surprise, his knee jerking upward violently to slam into the side of her head.

“Ow,” she cried, instantly rubbing a hand to where the impact left her head ringing.

“Oh, fuck, I’m so sorry,” he said, his contrition immediate but then his expression quickly turning disgruntled. “What the bloody hell were you doing, Sansa?”

“I was just kissing your hip, you idiot.”

“Well, don’t do that.”

She narrowed her gaze, irritated with the way her brother kept changing his mind.

“You said I could.”

His eyes turned to slits. “I don’t recall that.”

“You just said earlier that I would be able to touch you as I wished if I let you explore me,” she reminded him, a noise of exasperation in her throat.

“That wasn’t touching, that was kissing.”

“For pity’s sake, what’s the difference?” She glared at Jon. “I was touching you with my mouth.”

Jon glared back at her. “Do you want me to get you off or not?”

“Yes,” she shot back, feeling sullen now. She pressed her hand over his crotch, and Jon jerked again, another oath tearing out of him. “But I want you to get off, too.”

He smacked her hand away, his head raised. “Stop that.”

Gods, he was maddening. Sansa huffed with her annoyance before lifting a leg over his chest, dragging her body up so she could sit on him. “Move your arms to the side,” she demanded.

“Yes, Your Grace,” came his cool retort.

But she ignored her brother’s sudden mood and leaned over his head, dropping her hands to the bed so she could widen her knees to either side of him. Jon’s gaze sunk to her twat, his hands coming up behind her bottom to shift her closer.

“Put your hands on my breasts,” she directed, and Jon brought his arms up from the backs of her thighs and slid his palms up her stomach to hold them both, a thumb instantly brushing over a nipple.

“Move up,” he said, his voice deep, “over my mouth.”And Sansa felt her desire reignited, both of her nipples now pinched between his fingers. She moved a hand down to the nexus of her cunt, and peeled herself open for Jon, that bleating stud already throbbing for him. Jon ran his tongue up her slit, she could feel it, and then settled on that spot, his lips fused to her, while in his mouth, she felt the rapid flutter of his tongue at the tip of her sex, like the wings of a moth flapping her cheek.

“Lick my cunt,” she said, feeling a twisted sense of pleasure at the way her brother’s eyes flashed darkly up to hers, everything below his nose hidden from view, yet Sansa feeling all he did. With some resolve, Jon raised his head off the bed and attacked her quim with vigor, pulling at her stud with his teeth, pinching her tits harder, until she was already soaking him again.

“Yes, like that,” she moaned, widening her folds with one hand, the other holding tight to his hair as she mashed her cunt to his face. Jon didn’t stop, his head bobbing against her once more, sucking on her as though he sucked a cock. The power of that image shivered through her and she began gyrating her hips, thrusting into his waiting mouth. Sansa leaned her head back then, letting her body tip backwards just enough so that Jon’s grip on her breasts stayed fast. Her braid hung down like a hangman’s rope, and she felt it dangle and smack over his erection, her tits to the sky, her cunt gaping for him as the spigot poured into his mouth. She heard him grunt, his tongue never slowing down, his head still moving with her as she rode him, and Sansa knew without a hesitation that Jon was pulsing for her, that if she turned herself around so that her face was downward, over him, that he would let her kiss him then, that he would let her swallow him. She almost wanted to stop, but she was swept up in the wave now, and so she dropped the palms of her hands to the bed, reaching as far back as her brother’s waist, and started to thrust towards his face in quick bursts, practically bouncing on him, as he worked her slavishly, a hand unclutched from a breast but then taking hold of her arse, rising up to the small of her back as he pushed her forward in time with her thrusts.

When Sansa peaked a second time, she made deep keening sounds in her throat, coming from somewhere buried within her, her mouth closed so she wouldn’t shout across the keep. Then her brother was moving her, hoisting her body up until she was straightened to her knees, and he curled his arms around her thighs and lifted her, his mouth still on her, absorbing what she gave him, raising himself off the bed until she was high enough that she gasped, grabbing for the tops of his shoulders to steady her. There was a snarl from beneath her and it took her a moment to realize it was Jon, not Ghost, making noises into her cunt, before he twisted his body, taking her with him until she was flopped to her back. Jon loomed over her, his face locked with want, kissing her belly, licking across her scars in great swaths, moving up to feast on a breast, nipping her flesh with his teeth. It took her breath, to see him like this, and she wanted to share in it, to feel his desire thick in her hands.

“Jon,” she breathed harshly, grabbing his hair to get his attention. He looked up at her suddenly, eyes wide, his hand so big he wrapped her breast in it.

“What?” His beard glistened with her again, a wet smear on his cheek that flashed in the firelight.

“Lay on your back,” she directed.

He grimaced. “Really?”

“Yes,” she insisted. “Why? I’m not going to argue semantics with you on what constitutes a touch anymore, just do it.”

Jon turned away from her, his hand still covering her breast, and swore under his breath. When he faced her once more, he looked resolved. “Why don’t I just get you off again?”

“But I want to get _you_ off,” she reminded him, trying to pull herself up to a sitting position while Jon lay across her thighs. “Just lie back.” His expression remained doubtful. “You can show me how to do it the way that feels best for you.”

“Sansa, I don’t know how many times you need me to say it. You don’t need to worry about me. This is all for you. If you want to touch me, fine, but it’s not necessary to … to go that far.”

“It is,” she argued, feeling that need soar – just to have his cock in her grip, right at this moment, was more than necessary. “Let me see you.”

He stared at her for another moment, debating himself she knew, before finally succumbing to her request and rolling over to his back with a heavy sigh. Sansa instantly shifted above him, her sight dropping right to it. Jon was swollen for her, his nob outstretched, reddened and marbled, yet her brother held the crook of an arm over his eyes, avoiding her gaze. She grabbed his elbow and pushed it over his head so she could look upon him, make him see her.

“Jon,” she murmured softly, before bending down to press her lips to his, until he kissed her back, a sensual parity that wrapped around them like wool. Sansa laid her body atop him, feeling how steely he was against her belly, the way it thudded against her in wanton alarm all the way down to its root. Her mouth stretched over Jon’s, their tongues coupling, sliding towards each other, and she was desperate to see her brother’s face as he gave in to his pleasure, the pleasure only she could give him.

Sansa slid her hand down his body, taking hold of him, and almost gasped at the heat she enveloped there, feeling scalded by the apparent flames under the surface of Jon’s skin. She felt as much as she heard another rumble in his chest, a growl rising into his throat, and again she thought of Ghost, thought of Jon as her wild wolf come to protect her, keep her from being ripped apart by the hounds in her dreams, the hounds that were burned and blackened in the pyre, now ashes, all because of her brother. She was suddenly reminded that it was Jon who put Ramsay in the kennels, had handed Sansa her weapon. This wolf would stand against her enemies. This wolf would lie between her legs and lick away her pain.

“I want to see it,” she whispered against his mouth.

“What do you want to see?” her brother whispered back, a dart of his tongue between her lips making Sansa want to put her fingers to her bud again. “I’ve shown you all of me, Sansa.”

But she would stay fast to that iron hardness, would not remove her grip until Jon spewed his seed by her hand. She started to stroke him, moving with languid purpose, while they still shared licks and kisses. She leaned back a fraction to look into his face.

“I want to see you spend,” Sansa told him plainly, boldly, watching his brows snake together in worry with a strange satisfaction nestled low in her belly. “I want to see it on my skin.”

Her brother didn’t answer, simply allowed her fingers to stay wrapped around him, glide them over his pike with a steady movement, while he watched her with that maddening concern. She wanted to see his hunger again, needed it. Sansa dropped her face to his chest, her teeth catching a nipple to tug at it, lips melting to the heat of his flesh, and felt his body jerk under her. Instantly, he palmed the back of her skull.

“Wait,” he said. “We should –” She snapped her head up in impatience, gritting her teeth, yet eager to see this to its end. Jon’s eyes widened. “Why don’t we move to the other side of the bed? So you can … so you’re comfortable.”

“Yes, alright,” she agreed in a rush, realizing her arm was already starting to strain from the repetitious motion the faster she stroked him. She sat up and waited, Jon rising up slowly, his arms to the back of him as they pressed to the bed. He looked to its edge.

“Do you want to lay by me? Or –” he frowned, “Or you can kneel by the bed. It might be easier to guide you,” he added, his expression abashed.

“On the floor?” That didn’t sound comfortable at all. She wanted to be over her brother, to command the act fully.

“However you want, Sansa,” he acquiesced with a small shake of his head.

She looked behind her. “Move with your head to the pillows,” she directed. “And stay to the middle. I’ll lie on the other side of you.” Being better suited to her right hand, she could have more control of the pace she wanted to set.

Jon followed her lead, rolling to his knees so he could raise himself and turn the other way. When he laid back down, he stretched his body and pulled up his legs, his knees splitting open as he lifted his arse to shift over to where she wanted him. The pose grabbed Sansa’s attention and she cupped his knee as she settled to the other side of him, holding his leg wide.

“Stay like this,” she rushed in a breathy excitement.

“What do you mean?”

Sansa dragged the knee in her grip towards her and with her other hand, pushed the inside of the opposite thigh wider. “Like this,” she explained. “Keep them open.”

She saw Jon swallow hard, still appearing unsure, but he did as she asked, letting them fall wider. Sansa took one of the pillows to the other side of his head and fit it into the diamond space between his legs, tucking it under his calves so they were slightly raised, and she reveled in the way Jon was spread before her, completely available to her touch. She snuggled into his side, putting her hand back on his cock, which hadn’t softened an iota, the steeliness of him egging her on.

“You’re like fire,” she breathed, rubbing him, then circling her fingers around his girth, squeezing hard for a moment to feel the strong pulse there, hot and steady, calling to her. She began to stroke him again, moving her hand in a quickening rhythm as she tugged down on the skin that protected him, wanting to see him bloom for her. “Is this good?” she asked with some insistence, unable to mask her earnestness.

Jon dropped a hand on hers to stop her. “Sansa.” Her name fell from his lips like stones. She glanced to him with widened eyes, feeling the cut of rejection for a bristling moment.

“What? What is it?”

He met her eyes with some knowing. “Sorry, but …” he uttered a harsh breath. “It would feel better with a bit of –”

“A bit of what?” she demanded.

Jon looked up to the ceiling as he spoke. “With something to lubricate the skin,” he finished. “It can get quite painful the way you’re currently rubbing me.” He dropped his eyes back to her face. “Why don’t you let me do it?”

But Sansa was already moving, leaning her head over his nob to drop a globule of spit on its belled end, the way Ramsay had made her. “ _Oh_ ,” she heard her brother choke. She used her fist to draw the wetness down the hard flesh of him, that silky membrane over solid iron a textural dichotomy, and peeled back the skin to see the fullness revealed, saw that he had his own wetness secreting from the split in its cap. She had hated looking at Ramsay’s, wanted to mangle it, destroy it, refusing to look upon it until he had shoved her head down and forced her to see. But with Jon, she could gaze upon his organ with wonder, free to see that it held its own beauty, and understood that to clutch her brother this way was to wrap her hands about his very vulnerability, and that he could be this unguarded with her, this exposed, gave rise to a sudden tenderness in Sansa. As she held him, she used her other hand to dive between her legs, deep in her cunt, and capture the arousal there, thick and plentiful, and then brought it up to coat her brother’s cock, slicking him further. She wanted only pleasure for Jon.

“ _Gods_ ,” he moaned, a sharp hiss in the room, and Sansa used both hands to hold him straight, gliding up and down in rapid waves, coaxing him to reach for her, to bring forth more of that dew. The need to taste him was so strong it almost sickened her. She turned to see Jon’s face and for a moment, time slowed to a halt, the room holding them there in a breath, everything stilled and waiting, as she stared into the hard hungry desire smoldering in the dark of his eyes, the curl in his lip, in every part of his face. Sansa felt a snag of fear in her gut for a brief second, but dispelled it in the next beat, reaching her body across his to kiss his stomach, right on the deepest cut, her right hand now moving steady and swift with his length still growing fuller in her tight hold. She stuck her tongue out and dipped it into the pinkish gash there, the way he did to her sex, imagining that she could hold that same power over him, taking away the remembrance and the horror of being gutted like this, the blade going deep cutting up his insides, just as Ramsay had done to her with the hilt of his knife, that damage inside her making her double over in the morning, her body screaming, and that rage that trailed it, the sheer effrontery at such a violation. And all the blood that had followed, how she had felt it for weeks after it had happened, a lingering, ghostly agony all the way to the deepest part of her.

“You’re so beautiful, Jon,” she murmured into the flesh of his abdomen, blessing his wounds with her licks and her spit and her tears that flowed freely.

“Sansa,” he moaned softly, and it carried such sadness that she had to look up to make sure he was all right. Jon was watching her, his desire still heavy in his gaze, eyes never leaving her face as she leaned over farther to latch onto a nipple, teasing it briefly before moving on to his mouth. When she kissed him, her strokes sped up, wishing for his release to arrive soon, the need to see him come invading her like fire. Jon raised his head to meet her, his shoulders off the bed, and when his tongue wrapped with hers Sansa wanted nothing more than to grind her cunt into his face. It staggered her, how her arousal could return again and again, Jon exciting her with just a look.

He began to move with her as they kissed, ragged and desperate, his bum off the bed again as he thrust urgently into her hand, his hips twisting, undulating underneath her with such abandon that Sansa imagined she might reach her own climax just from seeing him lose himself so completely under her touch.

“Jon,” she moaned back, suddenly deciding that her brother was right, that she should kneel beside him in order to see everything. She slid to the floor, her body dropping to the stone, and Jon’s face fell in surprise for but a moment, before she was dragging him to her with an arm about his waist. Jon sidled his body over for her, and then guided her hand back to him, the two of them stroking his erection together as they watched the head of his member eke more of that milky effusion, a sign to Sansa that he wanted her to do this as much as she did. From her lowered stance, her elbow on the bed, she felt a strength return to her strokes, Jon turning his body into her machinations with a committed focus.

“Pump it harder,” he instructed, coaxing her hand faster, his need as rough as his voice.

“Is this too much?” she asked him as they worked together, mindful of causing him pain, but he drew her fist down to his sac with such force that she felt it in her twat.

“No, it’s good,” came his deep burr, stuttered with his panting breaths, and Sansa’s skin was ablaze, feeling herself burn as hot as her brother with every frenzied stroke, her hand now flying over him so fast was it moving. They heard the slap of her hand on the flesh of his thigh as she worked, never slowing, an understanding that Jon was nearing his orgasm dawning within her until it was a clamor in her ears, the sounds of her screams distant as she kept on, her eyes now glued to her brother’s parts, his desire oozing for her right in the slit of him, and she knew that this was her doing, that she was controlling this, that she would milk her brother because she wanted to do it and no one could take that from her ever again. Jon strained for her, his body taut and rising off the bed, his face turned to his pillow as he muffled his moan the way she had needed to when he was tending to her, and the power in that vision, the unmitigated lust present there, fueled Sansa in a way she’d never experienced.

“I’m close,” he gasped, and Jon grabbed for her hand. “Let me finish it,” he said raggedly.

“No!” she cried, smacking him away while staying firm to him, her strokes never wavering. “I’ll do it.” She pushed him down at his chest to keep him there, her attention on his cock, ready to see it, the screams in her ears fading as the strength in her body leapt to a dizzying height. But Jon slipped his hand into hers where she held him down, locking their fingers together as she worked slavishly, tireless.

“Fuck, Sansa,” he swore, writhing under her, thrusting into her palm still, until he suddenly went stiff, heels dug in and his entire body off the bed as his head rolled back with a groan.

The first spurt was a pearly streak, right before her eyes like a comet across the night sky, and Sansa stopped her manic fisting, squeezing him tightly in her awe. Before it could even land, another jettison of spunk arced towards Jon’s stomach, and Sansa watched with fascination as the rest followed, whitish ropes of his seed that she had conjured, hot and propulsive as they splat to the busy terrain of her brother’s torso. It pooled there in the gutters of his stomach, the stream a surprising amount, and through a dense layer in her head she heard Jon groan again, a pained sound, while she watched the fruit of her labor cover him, drip down his sides. His seed lay there upon him, not in her, not clogging her womb, fouling her with a child, with the pain that would come as the blood rolled down her legs. She thought she could feel it for a moment, before she realized it was just her own arousal trickling onto her thighs. And Sansa was so grateful. Grateful for what Jon had shown her.

She looked back to his face then but Jon had pressed the back of his hand over his eyes, his mouth open as his breaths came hard. Sansa leaned down and kissed the still firm underside of him, running her tongue up its length and then she heard Jon gasp, his body jolting as he raised himself up. For a moment they locked eyes, her mouth hovering over the end of him in a dare. Something in her brother’s gaze made her stop, a warning there, but she needed to show him, needed him to see that she wasn’t afraid, that she wanted him fully. She remembered the night this had started, how she had fondled her brother as he slept in the night, the imaginings she had of kissing him all over his body, how wild and unhinged she’d felt to think on it. And here she was, seeing the cooling remains of her handiwork spread all over him. Without another thought, Sansa leaned down and licked a long swath through his come, down from his hip to the center of his chest, her tongue feeling the rough gouges in his skin along the way. When she lifted her head to kiss him, the residue of him collected there as she held out her tongue, ready to share it with him, Sansa stilled upon seeing his face.

Jon gaped back at her, his expression carved into a rictus of utter horror and disgust.

She froze, feeling an instant shame flood her. Yet this was her gift, she decided, and she wouldn’t be humiliated for it. Sansa pressed her hands to either side of him and dropped her face to his, a wickedness rising in her to see Jon rear his head back just the slightest bit. They both paused this time, his gaze on her tongue where it curled to hold his issue, Sansa staring at his lips willing them to open. After what felt like an interminable moment, at last he shifted, his mouth widening to receive her, and Sansa stuck her tongue inside him, her offering still warm, she could feel it run from the creases of her mouth. But then Jon was sucking on it, their tongues lapping together, the two of them imbibing his seed, and Jon’s hand was on the back of her head so sweetly, his kisses now determined, remorseful, and she dragged two fingers up the slick of him and tipped her head back just far enough away to feed him more of it. He took it again with a groan, and to see Jon do this for her, to watch him eat his own come, struck something deep in Sansa. She pressed her fingers farther to the back of his throat, wanting him to take all of it, forcing him to suck on them, Ramsay hissing in her ears, his threats like punches, visceral and terrifying, and Sansa couldn’t stop now, pushing them deeper until Jon’s eyes went wide and glassy, a choke in his throat as he gagged on her. His hand shot out to grab her by the wrist, stopping her, and their eyes were locked on each other now. Jon must have seen something there, an absolute that wouldn’t allow Sansa to back down, for the dark flash of his eyes softened.

Then her brother did something that truly shocked her. Holding her wrist, he turned his head just so, his eyelashes down as he cast his gaze to her fist, and with a sharp intake of breath, Jon began to pump her fingers into his mouth in a steady rhythm. Sansa gasped to watch him, to feel it, as he slurped her fingers with his spit and let her move in and out of him, the obvious mimicry of the sexual act that she imagined performing on him so many times no longer lewd. There was something quite gorgeous in the way he gave himself over to it, in a manner that simultaneously filled Sansa with longing and envy. But her arousal loomed heavy once more, and she wanted that pleasure to consume her. She snatched her fingers from where they thrust, making Jon raise his questioning eyes to her, and then she slid them around in the cold pool on his chest before returning them to her own mouth this time, letting him see her feast on it as she sucked greedily and noisily.

“Sansa, stop,” he said quietly, his hand cupping her cheek, the tenderness and affection in his touch filling her with a sense of home. A sob rose in her, and she grasped Jon by his head, kissing him with all she could muster as she pushed them both down, her body flat to his so that she could coat her body too, bind them together with his cream. She smeared the slick on her breasts back and forth over his chest, kissing him deeper, arms around his neck, and then felt Jon’s hand take hold of her bottom, pressing their sex to each other for a single second before he gripped her by the waist and rolled them both over. Jon pulled away from her, rising up to sit at the bed’s edge with a deep sigh.

“Don’t, I still need you,” she whined to him.

Jon turned suddenly, grabbing hold of her leg and pulling it open. With his other arm, he cradled her, sliding it under the small of her back and clasping her waist, bringing her arse off the bed.

“Open your legs,” he said in a rush, and Sansa complied instantly, eager to have her own orgasm. But instead of him bending his head down to her sex, Jon slid two fingers into her without any notice to prepare her. She was soaking for him, but it still shocked her breathless, until Jon moved in her in steady glides, and when he bent his head, it was to feast on a breast, her nipple crinkling in a hot mouth. She kept her legs open for him, moaning when he suckled the nipple harder, while his fingers began to move with some haste. Within another minute, he started fucking her rigorously, his fingers creating squelching sounds in her body as his pace quickened with some urgency, moving as fast as she had stroked him earlier.

“Yes, just like that,” she gasped, those sounds making her desire for him surge. “Fuck me.”

Jon didn’t stop what his fingers were doing, but his mouth licked across her skin to her other breast, and Sansa was aware that both were still coated with him, the reminder giving her another thrill, and she poured for Jon between her legs, his fingers working furiously in her while he gnawed at her teat, their breaths heavy, and then with an incredible efficiency Jon was summoning that wave, her insides clenching, breasts sore and wanting, the images behind her eyes sexual and fluid, and then finally he bent down her body and put his mouth on the high point of her and sucked on her hard, fingers still pumping, until Sansa was ready to cry out once more, taking hold of the pillow to shout into it as her brother had done once this evening. She came hard this time, the throbbing echo of her cunt sending waves into the room, her body suddenly exhausted, and when she dropped to the bed, her legs trembled with the force of it.

“Oh, gods,” she hushed. It felt so good, what Jon did to her.

“Are you done?”

Sansa raised her head wearily to eye him. “Yes,” she smiled, watching him return to being her reserved brother as he sat up again and fixed his sight forward. She saw Ghost in her periphery in front of the hearth, tongue lolling as he watched them, and those red eyes followed his master when Jon suddenly stood up. He made his way to his dresser, where his ceramic basin sat by its jug. Sansa let her eyes linger over his backside as he walked. She was starting to understand why women liked to gaze upon him. He was very pleasing to look at. She recalled Jon as a boy, saw the young lad he’d been, sullen and brooding, plain but for the shock of his hair.

Jon turned and brought the basin with him, a cloth laid in the center of the bowl. Back at the bed, he set it down to the floor and collected the cloth to wring the water out before turning to lay it upon Sansa’s belly. It was cold.

“Jon, you could have warmed it,” she said, leaning up on her arms.

“Settle back.” He wiped the cloth under her breasts first, wiping up the thick seed crusting to her skin. He folded over the cloth and swiped a second time, a bit lower, to continue to bathe her. He had to rinse it once to get the rest of it, but he worked over her with systematic swipes, removing the last of him. When he was done with her, he rinsed the cloth once more, before bringing it to his own body, and he began to cleanse himself. He stayed quiet and thoughtful, not giving her much attention beyond the bath. She sat up to study him, still in awe with what he had allowed her to do for him. Her thoughts traveled back to that very afternoon, how angry he had been after the meet with Petyr and the Vale commander.

“You were smart to get Lord Royce on your side that way,” she spoke, in an attempt to engage him out of his reverie. “Talking about his son, reminding him of what was at stake. I think both of them needed a harsh lesson on what we face. You gave them logistics instead of lore. Littlefinger respects that.”

Jon didn’t comment, but stared to the floor as he finished wiping down all the patches on his body that he’d spent across.

“You never told me you climbed the Wall,” she said with another slow smile, the warmth in it spreading over her face. It gave her a sense of pride in Jon, that he was so much a part of the North, no matter what Petyr said, or where Jon was born. Jon was fearless, an attribute she desired for herself. “That you went up with the wildlings. Was Ygritte with you?” She must have been quite a woman, Sansa thought with some reverence.

Jon finally responded to her. “Aye,” he said softly. “She and Tormund both.” He dropped the cloth to the bowl as he finished, running a hand over his eyes tiredly.

Sansa shifted to sit closer to him, taking hold of the top of his arm as she leaned down to kiss him there. She felt very close to him, with all they had done, but what went on his head was still a mystery to her. “That must have been so terrifying,” she tried again. “And completely mad. You could have fallen to your death.”

“But I didn’t,” Jon said. “Although I was almost cut loose half way up.”

“What did it look like when you made it to the top?” she wondered. While they stayed at Castle Black, she had been too overwhelmed to take the lift up the side to see the edge of the world. But surely it must have been quite a different view from there to have climbed it with one’s own hands, to witness it with one that you loved. “Did you and Ygritte see it together?”

Jon finally turned to her, his expression so laden with grief, Sansa was taken aback. “Yes,” he managed to get out, a hoarse whisper, before his face crumpled and Sansa watched horrified as her brother dropped his head to his hands, a thick sob choking him. His shoulders were suddenly shaking, his weeping furiously silent, yet breaths gasping from him in intervals, and Sansa sat stunned, not knowing what to do. She had never seen her brother cry like this, not even as a child.

“Jon,” she moaned, a plaintive note hung there. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She heard him swallow his sobs, his entire body shuddering now, as he held in his sadness, and Sansa was brought low to see him like this, frightened for him. She thought that he had been getting better, that what they shared had helped him, too. To see her powerful brother – a warrior, their king, a man who climbed the Wall – being wracked with such despair tore at her heart. She worried that she’d contributed to such melancholy.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asked tearfully.

Jon sucked in a harsh breath suddenly, bringing his fists to the sockets of his eyes. He exhaled slowly, a long gust, as he wiped across his face. He took another shuddering breath before looking at her, a weak smile there bravely fighting through tears still tracking the length of his face.

“I’m so sorry,” he said roughly, the emotion still thick in his voice, even as he attempted to moderate it. “I’m alright,” he assured her, as she sat dumbfounded. “I didn’t mean to upset you. You did nothing wrong.”

“You’re not alright,” she insisted. “Tell me. Please, Jon. What is it?”

“I’m fine, Sansa,” he said, in a stronger tone, his sad smile doing more to upset her than anything else. “I’m alright. I will be alright, I promise.” He put a hand to her knee and patted it in a comforting manner. “Truly, it’s going to be alright.” Wiping away the last of the wetness on his face with the heel of his hand, he released another shaky breath, gazing off to the fire. “I’m just a bit tired, I think. I don’t … I don’t believe I can do much more for you tonight, Sansa. I’m sorry.”

Sansa felt her guilt spike as she recalled his nightmare. Those surely hadn’t subsided, and here she was dominating so much of his nights.

“You’re exhausted because I’m keeping you up,” she admitted, ready to take the blame.

Her brother shushed her softly, still patting her. “No, that’s not it at all. It’s hard for me to sleep. I just have too many … too many thoughts. I can’t quiet my mind.”

“Should I have the maester bring you a sleeping draught to help you?” she suggested, grasping for his hand to clutch it to her. “Perhaps even some Essence-of-Nightshade?” She recalled Tyrion offering it to her after she’d learned of her mother and brother’s brutal murders. She had declined it, fearing its powerful efficacy, but Jon had been losing sleep for a while now, he might need something strong. Her guilt grew at the thought that he’d been suffering while her attention had been on her own troubles.

“Sansa, I’m fine,” he repeated. “I’ll try to get some proper sleep tonight.”

“Promise me that you will,” she begged, now afraid to leave him. Sansa put her arms around him, hugging her brother to her. “Please, Jon, I need you.”

Jon raised a hand to pat over her arm, where it gripped in front of his throat. “You’re a strong woman, Sansa. You don’t need anyone.”

She pulled back to meet his eyes, wondering if he truly believed that. “Jon, we have to take care of each other. Let me help you.”

But Jon only dragged her arm down, breaking her hold. “No, I’m alright, I told you. You need some sleep, however. Let’s get you off to your own bed.” He nodded towards his direwolf. “Ghost, get me her robe.”

Ghost jumped up and cantered over to them, picking up her robe with his teeth on the way. He brought the garment to his master and Jon rubbed the beast’s head, before standing to shake out her robe and hold it open for her. “Come on. Get dressed.”

“You promise you’ll be able to sleep? I can stay with you until you do,” she tried, standing up for him so he could cover her nudity.

“Nonsense. I’m a big boy, Sansa. I can manage. It’s too dangerous for you to stay so late.” His hands came in front of her as he tied her sash around her waist, and Sansa wanted to lean into him, to wrap her body around his.

When he turned her around, he glanced about the stone. “Where are your slippers?”

“I didn’t wear any,” she confessed. She’d been so eager to get to Jon’s room.

“Don’t do that. You’ll catch a chill. And …” he trailed off, apprehensive suddenly.

“And what?”

Jon’s concern was stamped to his features. “Um … you don’t want your handmaidens to notice things such as dirt from your feet on the bedsheets. We don’t want there to be any suspicion, on where their lady goes at night.”

“You’re right,” she nodded. “I understand.”

He took her hand and they walked together to his desk, where he led her behind it to the private door of the servant’s hallway. Before opening it, he sucked in another breath, searching her face.

“What is it?” she prompted, knowing he had more to impart.

“Sansa,” he began, his eyebrows knitting together. “You went from coming to visit your brother every night, to … well, the guards see that you stay away from me in the evening now.” He held her gaze, his serious nature returned. “It looks a bit odd. They see that we’ve repaired the … the troubles that were between us. It’s good for everyone to believe that we are in agreement with each other; that we get along.”

“Of course we get along.” She loved her brother. She only wanted what was best for him.

“Well, it was nice when you came to see me,” he said. He smiled at her, no longer so forlorn. “I’ve missed our talks, Sansa. You _can_ use my proper door to come and see me, you know.”

“You liked our talks?” She smiled at him, pleased to see that her brother seemed his regular self now.

“I did. There’s still so much we don’t … well, that we don’t know about each other.”

“I agree,” she replied. Her brother had sparked his own legend with the people of the North, and there were so many whispers and wonders about him. As much as their people, Sansa wanted to know more of him, whatever Jon was willing to share with her. “Should I come and see you after the feast tomorrow night?” She frowned as she thought of his exhaustion. “Or perhaps I should let you sleep instead.”

“You can come and visit,” Jon said. “I have more letters to write. Perhaps you can help me.”

“I would like that.” Sansa felt such love for Jon in that moment. She wanted to tell him, but it was difficult. She didn’t want to make him sad again. She wrapped her arms around him suddenly, holding the back of his neck as she pulled him to her.

“Sleep well, brother,” she whispered into his ear, before kissing him on the cheek.

Jon squeezed her hand in his grip and she gave him another glance over her shoulder, holding on to him until her arm stretched, until she was at the door and had to let go.

“Good night, Sansa.”

She turned and opened it silently, peeking into the hall to see it was empty before slipping out of his room.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know, guys. It's been a hellish two weeks at work, lots of traveling, lots of getting stuck in airports because of snow. And then there's me calling Lord Royce a knight for like 8 chapters. When did I decide he was a Ser? I don't even remember.
> 
> I'm doing another rewatch. In S6 right now, Jon just woke. I've seen this show so many times and yet, you still forget the little stuff. Theon and Sansa are just so much more tragic now that I watch their scenes. And the timing, oy. I will just add that how long Sansa was held at WF with the Boltons is not really clear, but I use two guideposts for a timeline: Walda giving birth shortly after Sansa escapes (and she had just announced her pregnancy the first night Sansa had dinner with them), and also its indicated in other seasons that it takes about ~~a week~~ **3 weeks*** to get from WF to Castle Black, and Stannis took a little time to get there with the snow. As well as how long Brienne sat waiting around for that damn candle. I'm trying to place some kind of date on these things but man, its hard. 
> 
> This is all to say that if I make any glaring mistakes in the canon details of the show, please let me know. Thanks, all. Your comments give me life, and hope that I'll get through this long winter and the coronavirus.

**xii.**

It was dark.

There was no fire. The hearth was a black tunnel. Ghost was gone. The moon, likely hidden behind the clouds.

He could make out the bulky silhouettes of the furniture: his desk, the dresser, his trunk, a chair, and something tall and black in the corner. He’d been staring at it for a while now, waiting for it to show itself. It watched him, he could feel it breathing.

Sansa had been gone for hours. Or had it been a short time ago? Jon wasn’t sure. His eyes burned, staring, staring into the blackness collecting into the corners, pockets of space he could fall into and sleep for moons, sleep for years, buffered by an endless silence. As silent as the room was right now.

Except for his own breathing, long gasps of it.

His eyes were acclimated to the darkness, caught the faces in the walls. Things moved in his room when it was dark like this. He heard them sometimes, the raspy hisses of the dead. He stared hard, until his eyes ached, as scenes of his life would play out against the stone under the roving flash of a bright cloud moving beyond his window: Ygritte clutching him as they stood atop the Wall, the sun filling him, the world laid out before them. The agonized face of Mance frozen as Jon’s arrow landed in the man’s heart, flames rising higher. Rickon running desperately towards him, the fear in his baby brother’s face growing as Jon held out his arm to capture him into an embrace.

The longer Jon stared, the more the memories assailed him. He shifted his gaze to the wall at the other end of his bed, seeing a spot brighten, warming with a glow of burnished light that came straight out of another time. And then he saw himself, a boy, battling Robb with wooden swords, the two of them no more than eight or nine. The joy leapt in him. It came from right in this chamber, the memory. He remembered the evenings that he would sneak in after supper, would bundle up with Robb in his bed, and they’d talk in whispers deep into the night until Old Nan would find them in the morning and usher him out. But here he was playing with swords, he and his brother, right before their bedtime, and then Lady Catelyn swept in, her anger smeared across her mouth. “Get out,” she had hissed, and Jon had run quickly, dropping the sword with a clatter, the shame spilling into him as he fled through the halls, feeling chased to the other end of the keep by his father’s disappointment. He had been too young still to completely understand why Lady Catelyn despised him so, but to upset his father was always the worst of it. What would his father think of him now?

The light faded, the room darkening once more, their younger selves disappearing, leaving a bluish cast to the wall. The fire had dwindled and Jon was cold again. A penetrating chill that fed his heart, sunk with dread. He heard more skittering, could see movement in the periphery of his vision, knowing that his dead children had come for their visit. Sliding his eyes back toward the corner, he saw the dark body there and watched it move, a step forward but not yet revealed.

Jon sighed, the sound of his breaths sharp in the stillness. Was he awake? Was he dreaming? He didn’t know. He looked to the wall again and saw Sansa splayed out against it, saw her body, the warmth in her giving off its own light like the gloaming at day’s end. Long legs and full breasts, her hair a copper sheet against milky skin, and Jon felt that tug in his guts, felt his sickness rise. He had wanted to help Sansa, the last of his family, yet what had he turned her into? He saw plainly what Ramsay had wrought every time he looked into his sister’s face, as she eagerly sought to please him with her mouth and her hands, her own kin, without a worry that it was all so wrong. Was he depraved to let it continue? Had Jon come back this way? Something twisted and rotting in his insides infecting his sister every time she lay with him, swelling her appetite for it like ripening fruit about to burst. Right here in the bedchamber of their dead brother. What was wrong with him?

But while his litany of loathing was incessant, Jon also understood that he couldn’t break under the weight of it. There was too much at stake. He didn’t have time for this, any of it. Sansa had her own strength, and whatever it was that she needed from him to mine that lode, Jon had to encourage it. Her very survival depended on it. What they’d done already he couldn’t take back. That she wanted to do more, he should have expected, he’d been foolish to think he had any control over her desire. Yet it was a shocking thing to see such carnality from one’s own sister, especially with the understanding that it wasn’t her own wants and imagination driving this need, but something that had been done to her, a licentiousness she deemed necessary to play out with a force that frightened him.

When she’d summoned up the memory of him and Ygritte atop the Wall, it had riddled him with such shame he thought he might lose himself to it. To recall what he’d felt at that moment, holding Ygritte, her love for him so fierce and defined. It had been pure, and so far removed from what he was doing with his sister the comparison had gutted him. Sansa deserved better than what he offered her. But he was all she had, he understood that, and Jon felt the bitterness in him surge at the fact. It was unfair to place it all at Sansa’s feet. They were both doing the best that they could. She had a right to a momentary peace after everything she’d been through. Was it truly peace that she gained from him, though? Jon felt she was only growing more disturbed. Could he continue to give in to her increasing demands without slipping under the wake of his own desire? Her hands had felt good on his cock. Her tongue was warm in his mouth. Her cunt, ripe and inviting. And he was just a man, after all. No man wanted to face the wretched truth that he might want to fuck his sister, however, and Jon was no different.

The black shape glided forward again, Jon caught the movement and his eyes darted to it, the darkness a part of him as he saw another layer of it, a deeper void in the shadows. Jon stared as a pair of glowing blue eyes opened, startling, alive, and then the body moved again, and a white face with a pointy crown emerged, hovering in the dark, the body still a black form. The Night King’s grin slowly stretched wide, a kinship there in his inhuman eyes, as if he were summoning Jon back home. The room rocked, weaving, he heard the lapping of water, and then light filled his vision again, the Night King now looking at him from across the water, the bodies of wildlings standing up to watch them, soullessly, as he and his men skiffed over the placid bay, and Jon staring back into the Night King’s eyes, all of his breath knocked out of him as he finally comprehended what they faced. There had been recognition in that look; Jon could see it in the apparition before him right now. The Night King knew him, knew something foul was in him, degrading him bit-by-bit. The challenge had been extended to Jon, only Jon, a prelude to their next meeting, and that he was destined to fight that evil incarnate gave Jon some comfort, the epiphany welcomed. He just needed to make sure that the North had a chance to survive, to beat them back, and then Jon could face his death again, accept it this time, his sense of purpose regained. Surely the Lord of Light hadn’t brought him back just to lay with his sister, and if he had, the gods were sick fucks. _My god is in you, my prince_ , Melisandre had hissed in his ear. Perhaps it was R’hollor who wanted Sansa, this foreign desire which had perverted Jon this way.

His bedchamber came back into being, and Jon’s sight was plunged into the darkness. He could see them clustered into the corners, however, crawling, scattering, blue eyes shining. Jon felt something near, sitting on the end of his bed. Possibly Olly. Maybe Arya. And Jon was so tired but he was compelled to look anyway, craning his head to see behind him and glimpse which ghost had come to visit him this night. He almost gasped at the vision.

It was her. She glared at him, accusing, livid. _What have you done to my daughter, bastard?_

Lady Catelyn sat at the end of his bed, a shroud over her hair, the look of her hard and hateful. Her face was ghostly white with black rings around her eyes. The gash at her throat was red and wide. He’d heard they cut her to the bone before tossing her body into the river. Jon suddenly and vividly recalled the only time she’d ever called him by his name, after Bran’s fall. _It should have been you,_ she’d told him before he left to take the black _._ Perhaps she’d been right. After all, here he was, in her first born’s room, stepping into Robb’s rightful place as the king in the North. She’d probably watched as her son was murdered. Jon had been murdered too; he had no say in any of it. Yet, he’d been the one to be brought back, not Robb, and Jon’s mission crystallized for him in that moment. He stared as Catelyn opened her mouth, another black void contained there, and he heard the shriek of the dead, cracked and ancient. Jon turned away from her, staring instead at the moving corners.

“Cat, kindly fuck off,” he said aloud, his voice ringing through the room, tired and angry. He was a king now; her opinion of him meant nothing. “I need you to leave,” he echoed from the last time he ever saw her, back in Bran’s room, his little brother so pale and still. Sansa had been so much like Catelyn when she was a young girl, parroting her mother’s views and dismissal of him. But now? Did she remind him of her mother still? Did it feed him? This decision to let Sansa have him, every part? Turn her craven so he could banish her mother’s hold on him?

Jon sighed again. It was too much to think on, he felt drained. He gazed into the blackness of the fireplace, as it pulled him into its depths, carrying him along, until the blackness was dotted with pinpricks of light, a starry sky, and then Jon was walking outside in the camps, on his way to Melisandre’s tent. The crunch of snow under his feet, the howl of the wind in his ears, and Jon remembered that his sister had watched him with her, had watched him fuck the Red woman on that first night back home. What had Sansa seen exactly that had sparked this insanity? What more did she want from him?

A hand touched his shoulder and Jon stopped to look back, startled, and then the night sky was gone, dawning light seeping into his vision and he was back in his room, in his bed. Hollis stared down at him, eyes wide.

“Your Grace! I’m sorry; I couldn’t tell if you was sleepin’ or not.” The boy retracted his hand as though he’d touched something hot, his eyes still huge. The fire was roaring, warmth rolling towards Jon as he sat up. Ghost lay on the hearth watching him, ever observant of his master.

“It’s alright, Hollis. I’m awake now. Thank you for tending to the fire.” He was naked under his furs and felt annoyed, not wanting to scandalize the boy. “Can you hand me my shirt, please?”

It was another day. Jon would get through it. There were so many plans underway, with so many more still to be put into motion. He had meetings with his builders and his Master-of-Arms, as well as an accounting of their growing arsenal at the forge. Mining teams were also being discussed at this afternoon’s council, and he hoped for a promising report from Davos on the matter. And Sansa would be waiting for him at their father’s table as they broke fast together. He needed to assure her that he had put himself to rights, that everything was fine.

Jon slipped on his shirt and got out of bed, the weariness sliding off of him as Hollis helped him prepare for his day.

******

“Aye, it’s not looking good, I agree, but we’ve only begun searching and there are plenty of caves farther north. I sent a raven to your replacement at the Watch. Tollett can help – you said Tarly discovered that first set while up at the Fist, didn’t you?”

“We don’t have time for that, Davos. It’s a hazard to send them ranging besides, with the Army of the Dead on the move. Edd’s got maybe forty, fifty brothers left. He can’t afford to lose any more.”

“I don’t think I ever smuggled dragonglass in my previous line of work, so I’m no help to ye, on where we can look next, Jon, but I’ll keep asking the other lords to see if anyone’s got some suggestions. Without it, do you think we can canvas the North for enough Valyrian steel to make an impact?”

Jon shook his head doubtfully as they walked into the Great Hall, his mind on Sam’s last few letters. “There’s only two hundred or so left across all of Westeros, Davos. We’d be lucky to get a dozen, and no, that wouldn’t be enough. Even if we only used them on the White Walkers,” he finished, noticing Sansa was already at the head table with a guest. His steps slowed for a beat as he saw Lord Royce in animated conversation with her, their heads bent towards each other.

“Well, _Bronze Yohn_ doesn’t have one, we know that much,” Davos muttered, using the lord’s nickname mockingly with his eyes on the same spot that Jon was headed towards. The two of them made their way to the table, the soldiers and servants rising from their seats with respect as he passed. It continued to feel strange – the way they all bowed to him – but it was also a reminder that this power would afford him the chance to save his people, that he could move them all forward.

His sister and Royce stood when they saw him, Sansa looking happy as she watched him coming down the aisle. As soon as Jon rounded the table, she opened her arms to him, quick to pull him into a hug with her hands to the back of his neck. Jon was surprised by such outward affection, Sansa usually so reserved in public, but she’d obviously taken his words last night to heart.

“Good morning, brother,” she beamed, putting her gloved hands to his cheeks when he stepped back from her. “You look much better.” She turned her head towards Royce. “Doesn’t his Grace look well-rested this morning, Lord Royce.”

“He does indeed, Lady Sansa. His Grace is young and healthy, and I’ve no doubt he’s ready for this war.”

“I believe there’s plenty more that needs to be done before we can be considered even remotely ready, Lord Royce,” he said in greeting. “I should hope we are all up to the task.” They all sat down after him, with Davos to Jon’s left and his sister on the other side of him. There was a maturity to Sansa that he appreciated when she wasn’t undermining his decisions, and so he was happy to have her handle Lord Royce while he replenished his energy with some sustenance.

“Ser Davos and I were just discussing Valyrian steel,” he told them in conversation. “I’ve reminded a few of the lords in my letters to them that they need to report which families we can rely on to contribute the steel to the effort, as I’m sure there are many we’ve missed. Do you know which houses might hold one in the Eyrie, Lord Royce?”

“The Corbrays have one, Lady Forlorn,” he answered immediately. “Ser Lyn carries it. I believe Lord Baelish is in frequent communication with him.” He looked contemplative as he rubbed at his chin. “Valyrian swords are rare; however, not quite as rare as one would think with so many having been lost since the Doom of Valyria, through countless rebellions. Even the Lannisters lost their sword years ago. It was surprising to hear King Joffrey had been gifted one by his grandfather before that doomed wedding. There were rumors that Tywin Lannister had it reforged, by one of the last masters left in the country, and I think it likely that it was your father’s sword that provided the steel.” The man looked grim to be the bearer of such news.

“Yes, Widow’s Wail came from Ice.” Sansa confirmed with a sharp note, her disgust in her features. She shook her head with derision. “How fitting.”

“Widow’s _Wail?”_ Jon echoed in disbelief. Such a crude and nasty boy that one had been. It was a constant relief that Sansa had not had to marry him. He sat back as the servants came up behind him with his plate of food, while a young girl across from the table poured him some ale with a welcoming smile.

Sansa rolled her eyes. “Gods, he was so proud of it, too. I remember all too well when it was given to him. He slashed at Lord Tyrion’s gift with it, tearing it to pieces, and then he said, “ _every time I use it, it will be like cutting off Ned Stark’s head all over again_ ”. Everyone at the table looked at me, as if they were waiting for me to say something. I had come to expect such viciousness from Joffrey by then, but there were depths to it, really, that could still surprise and leave one speechless.”

Jon grew somber at the scene she painted, his anger flush in his face and hands, although once again reminded that his sister had been closest to the events that had destroyed their family, that she did have insight even now.

Lord Royce looked at her gravely. “Lady Sansa, it was a horrible injustice what was done to your father, to you, to your entire family. But that war had been set in motion the moment Lord Arryn succumbed to his illness. An illness that I still suspect was due to foul play from that Lannister vermin.” He shook his head in sadness, taking hold of Sansa’s hand. “When I think of what Lysa Arryn put you through, in her madness, with all that you’d already endured, you poor girl, it’s a wonder you made it home at all.” Royce suddenly looked up in surprise, his eyes landing on Jon with some guilt. “And of course, an injustice to you, Your Grace. Lord Eddard was a great man, one of the best I’ve ever known. Even as a lad, growing up in the Eyrie with Robert Baratheon constantly by his side, your father was always honourable and duty-bound.”

“Thank you, Lord Royce. You are most kind to say so.” Jon tamped his annoyance down with a swallow of his ale, the unspoken sentiment that Ned Stark had not been so honourable at least one time in his life always there in their eyes. He looked to his sister. “But Ice was a greatsword, one of the few left. Robb and I could barely lift it until we were almost grown. Surely two longswords could have been forged from it.”

Sansa looked off to one of the tables and back at Jon, sliding her eyes to him somewhat surreptitiously. “I may know of another. Possibly.”

“Lady Brienne carries Oathkeeper,” Davos interjected and Sansa darted a worried look to Royce. “Covered in Lannister gold, so I think we have your answer. Which means we have two here, at least. Didn’t you say Randall Tarly has one, Your Grace?”

“Heartsbane?” Royce questioned, sliding a piece of salted fish onto his fork with the edge of a knife. “The man never uses it. He keeps it over the family hearth, I’ve seen it.”

“Well, it’s not there any longer,” Jon noted. Sam had already confessed that he’d taken it with him to the Citadel after leaving his father’s castle, Gilly and baby Sam in tow. “But if there are any other families you can think of, Lord Royce, please do let me know.”

“And speaking of family, how are Lady Royce and your daughters faring at Runestone while you prepare for the threat with us, Lord Royce? You must miss them terribly,” Sansa said. “It may be a small consolation that they’ve yet to experience our Northern winter. But it is coming.”

“They are well, thank you for asking, Lady Sansa. At least, as well as can be expected, with the country in such turmoil. It has become quite apparent that Queen Cersei won’t be any improvement over her first born son. Utter madness, what’s happened in the capital. Complete and utter madness,” he moaned before taking another bite of his food.

“I felt so bad for Lady Olenna,” Sansa continued. “To lose your entire family like that, and witness the end of your house in one explosion. She’s a formidable woman, but that’s more than even she can bear.” She took hold of Jon’s hand resting by his plate and squeezed it tight. “My brother and I could certainly commiserate with such profound loss. But House Stark is still here, and we still fight,” she said, smiling sweetly to Jon. He smiled back at her, returning the grip she had on him. “And the North remembers. So close to your own house words, Lord Royce.” The man nodded agreeably with a raise of his eyebrows, as he sipped at his ale.

But Jon felt a need to remind them both that their fight wasn’t with the living. “While Cersei might demand I come and bend the knee, there may be a time soon where we have to warn those in King’s Landing of what’s coming.”

“You’re not going anywhere near Cersei,” Sansa snapped immediately, squeezing his hand tighter. “Nor King’s Landing. She’d never let you leave. Not with your head, at any rate.”

“Sansa,” he said with a sigh. “I have no intention of doing so, I’m merely pointing out that if we can’t win this war all of Westeros is next. It is my duty to prepare those ruling the country on what their people face. And to seek help where I can.”

“You can’t seriously think that Cersei would offer her forces to fight with us,” Sansa said, her tone disparaging. “She’s likely sending her army to attack the North, as we sit here and wait.”

“The Lannister army has never gone past The Neck,” Royce replied with some bluster. “They won’t come this far North, not with winter upon us.” The commander shook his head and patted Sansa’s hand. “Cersei may be a hateful woman, my dear Lady Sansa, but she is no fool. Even with their numbers, they’d be at a severe disadvantage.”

“If Jon makes her angry enough, then there’s no telling what she’ll do,” Sansa insisted.

“I don’t plan on doing that, either,” Jon said. “But we need to stop seeing everyone as enemies. Even those we’ve fought all our lives, may need to become our allies if we want to survive.”

Both Sansa and Lord Royce looked at him as though he’d sprouted another head.

“With her kingdoms fractured, most either weakened or in open rebellion, Cersei will definitely be in need of some allies,” Lord Royce continued. “Euron Greyjoy sails with an armada to King’s Landing, a thousand ships they say, bringing an offer to the Queen, I’m sure.”

“Euron Greyjoy doesn’t have the Ironborn’s entire fleet, though. His niece, Yara, took her ships and her men, and now she’s on the open seas, sailing with the Targaryen queen, I’ve heard.”

“How do you know this?” Jon asked Sansa, his distaste for the Greyjoys having sharpened to a fine point with Theon’s betrayal.

“Lord Baelish gave me the information,” she admitted. “I was hoping that Theon had made it to his sister. That he’s with her now.” She eyed Jon grimly, expecting to find some sympathy from him, but Jon had none to give.

“Well, he can stay on the seas,” he said darkly. “And remain far away from Winterfell.”

Sansa looked pained at his words. “Jon, don’t say that.”

“Why not?” Jon asked her plainly. “He betrayed our family, Sansa. We lost our home because of him. And we had to lose our brother trying to get it back.”

His sister stayed silent but watched him somberly, her eyes brimming with her displeasure. Jon finished the last of his ale and stood up, leaving half of his food on his plate.

“Ser Davos, are you ready? Markas awaits us at the smithy.”

Davos shoved the last of his eggs into his mouth and gulped it down with his drink. “Aye, right behind you, Your Grace.”

Jon bent down and kissed his sister on the forehead. “I’ll see you later at the council,” he said tenderly, hoping he had managed to erase any fears his sister carried from the night before with his improved demeanor. He nodded towards the Vale commander as the man stood up to bow. “Lord Royce.” Jon turned to leave when he noticed Brienne of Tarth striding towards him purposefully down through the tables, her head tall and proud … until she saw Lord Royce seated next to his sister. Her determined smile fell and she quickly turned foot to make her way to another table, her confused squire following her with a glance back at them. Jon looked to Davos to see if he had an explanation for the queer behaviour. The older man gave a nudge of his head to the great doors leading out and Jon took his cue, bidding a fond day to his company once again.

“What was that about?” he asked once they were outside, walking across the courtyard to the forge.

“Lady Brienne does her best to avoid Lord Royce,” Davos said, his arms crossed behind his back as they walked. “It’s a difficult task, however, as the man dotes on your sister.”

“Lord Royce doesn’t approve of women fighting with a sword?” Jon asked, although not surprised.

“ _Noh_ , that’s not the issue. She killed his son, Robar,” his right hand explained.

That did surprise Jon. “I was unaware. For what reason?”

“Royce was in Renly’s Kingsguard. When Renly was killed, well … as Lady Brienne tells it, she was there to witness the deed, saw that shadow demon Melisandre conjured. The knights came into the tent and saw her over their king’s body, and assumed she was the murderer. Brienne killed them to escape with Lady Catelyn. While it may have been self-defense, she imagines it’s a sore spot for Lord Royce and aims to leave him be.”

“Aye, she’s probably right,” Jon agreed. Brienne was a southron daughter, but he admired how quick she was to fit in at the castle, ingratiating herself to the Northerners around her while still carrying herself with honour. She seemed to give good counsel to his sister, and Jon appreciated he had another person protecting and watching over Sansa. “But she also killed Stannis,” he noted. “And you seem to be getting on with her just fine, Ser Davos.” The man shrugged, sharing a thin smile to acknowledge the unlikely friendship.

“So, no dragonglass yet,” Davos said, changing the subject. “But let’s see how we’re doing with the steel.”

Jon scanned the grounds, where many had already begun their work for the day. The snow was still heavy and a cold wind cut through him, even with the furs Sansa had made wrapped around him. “They get closer to us every day, Ser Davos. I can feel it,” he said, turning to the man beside him. “I fear we won’t be ready.”

Davos slapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t give up, Jon. An answer may come soon.”

They continued onward to the blacksmith.

******

Jon was sealing up another scroll when he heard a knock at his door. “Come in,” he called, without stopping his task.

“Your Grace, the Lady Sansa to see you,” Kevven said upon opening the door. Sansa walked in behind his guard, looking a little cheerier than this afternoon. Resources were slim, it hadn’t been a good meeting of the council, but they all resolved to work harder at finding solutions. Sansa wore her dress from this morning, the one with the front bodice patterned like a shield. His sister was clever like that, her designs much more hardened and creative than what he saw in the outfits of the other Northern ladies. She had on her chain again, the ring fastened crookedly on her chest under the lapel of her fur. She smiled at Jon as she stepped down, waiting for Kevven to close the door before she began walking towards him.

“You do need a proper amanuensis, don’t you? Always so many letters. Who are you writing to now?”

“Lord Cerwyn,” he answered. “They’re only half a day away, and we could use some more of his men here to help with the preparations. Markas needs triple the smiths he has working under him now. Any blacksmiths, plus their apprentices, should be heading to Winterfell as soon as possible. I’ve put out the call.”

“Well then, let me help. I can write while you orate.”

Jon finished stamping the wax and looked up as his sister came to stand beside him. “You don’t have to, Sansa. I’m almost finished.”

“But I want to,” she said, smiling softly as she put out a hand to stroke the top of his head. “It’s no trouble.”

“All right then.” Jon stood and offered her his chair. Before sitting down, Sansa leaned over to kiss him and Jon held her mouth with his own, feeding on her warmth while taking her tongue. He sighed into her before pulling away, letting her take his seat. “I need to write to Lady Eddara in Torren's Square next, to see what House Tallhart can send, whether that be men or supplies. A woman’s touch may be required here.”

“Lady Eddara is quite fond of you,” Sansa replied instantly. “I don’t think it will be difficult to gather her full support for whatever we need.”

Jon frowned. “How do you know she’s fond of me? When we met with her to petition for aid before the battle with the Boltons, she did not make that apparent.” Her reception had been quite frosty, in fact, in a meet where Sansa’s input had been productive for once. The woman had taken an instant liking to his sister.

But Sansa only gave him a smirking shake of her head. “Trust me. I know.” She pulled open a scroll and dipped her pen in the inkpot, poising it above the paper to begin as she scanned Jon’s face.

“Um … let’s start by mentioning her nephew, Brandon, with our deepest regret for her loss. Their continued fealty to House Stark as we fought to regain our home, when so many other houses had turned us away, was crucial. Their loyalty will not be forgotten.” Jon paced in front of his desk as he talked. “But as they are farther south from the threat, we need her to send what she can immediately north. I’ll give you a list.”

Sansa had begun to write, the quill scratching across the paper, but stopped in the middle of his words to narrow her gaze at him.

“Perhaps we could include a few more sentences on how her support was invaluable to us before we start asking for more of her men,” she suggested. “How brave her nephew was during the battle, that sort of thing.”

Jon took a breath. “Fine, Sansa. You add what you think is best.” He wiped a hand over his face as he walked towards the hearth. There wasn’t time for such pleasantries and wheedling; they were falling behind in their progress. But Jon acknowledged that Sansa was probably better at this than him. She had an ease with their lords and ladies that he’d never felt, always expecting their judgment upon introduction. He began dictating their requisitions again while Sansa wrote, and over the next hour or so, she kept steady with him as he went through all of their remaining vassals. Surprisingly, she didn’t interrupt too much, and Jon appreciated that this was a better way to collect his thoughts together, to hear it voiced aloud with a bolstering commitment. Sansa debating any item with him only helped him reinforce his convictions.

After she sealed the last missive, she dropped it on top of the pile. “I’ll deliver these to Maester Wolkan in the rookery before I head to bed,” she said to him, and Jon immediately attuned to the fact that she was not planning on staying all night. He exhaled a relieved breath, feeling lighter suddenly.

“Thank you, Sansa. For your help.” He smiled at her as he went to sit in his chair by the hearth. Ghost had joined them midway through the correspondence and now came up to rest his snout on Jon’s knee, begging for some attention. Jon dropped his hand to his friend’s head and rubbed it affectionately, Ghost closing his eyes in pleasure from his master’s touch.

“Lady Tallhart was kept prisoner by the Ironborn, when they attacked Torrhen's Square to draw our men away from Winterfell,” Sansa noted quietly. She looked up at Jon with understanding. “I know they were not kind to her.” Eyeing Jon squarely, she straightened her shoulders back. “But Theon paid for his crimes, a hundred times over, Jon. You didn’t see him; see what Ramsay did to him. You can’t keep punishing him.”

“I haven’t punished him at all, Sansa,” Jon said in his defense. “He’s not here to be put on trial. He’s off with his sister, you said. As long as he stays away, I have no plans to seek him out. We don’t have time for that.”

“But you don’t understand,” she cried emphatically, turning in her seat to face him fully. “I wouldn’t _be here_ if Theon hadn’t saved me. I would have jumped to the stones below and smashed my head in myself if I believed I’d never get away from Ramsay. That monster tortured Theon until he couldn’t even say his own name! He called himself Reek. Ramsay made him sleep in the kennels with the hounds. You don’t know how much strength it took for Theon to help me.”

“About as much strength as it took to cut off Ser Rodrik’s head?” Jon snapped, getting angrier. “To murder and burn two young boys and tar their bodies?”

“But you know it wasn’t Bran and Rickon,” she rebutted. “He confessed to me when I confronted him. It was two farm boys they killed after Bran and Rickon had escaped with Hodor and a wildling from the kitchens.”

“So that makes it alright then?” Jon sneered. “Those were children he had butchered. Which he would have done to our baby brothers if he’d managed to find them.” He shook his head to Sansa. “I understand that you want to protect him. I appreciate what he did for you, I do. But he can never set foot on these grounds again, Sansa. Or I’ll take his head myself.”

Her face grew stormy. “Jon, no. It isn’t right. He grew up here. This is his home as much as it is ours.”

“It is not!” he yelled, standing up in defiance. “He betrayed Robb; they were practically brothers. He chased Bran and Rickon out, leaving them at the mercy of the wild, leaving our home open to invasion from the Boltons, those treasonous fuckers! Theon gave up any right to this place the moment he rode in through the gate with Ironborn at his back! How are you not seeing this, Sansa?”

“Because I saw what happened after! I saw what was done to him!” Sansa was stood as well, her hands in fists at her side. “And he saw me! I can’t forget that!”

“He saw you? Of course he saw you. You were both here. And how many nights did it take before Theon finally grew a spine? Ramsay raped you for weeks, Sansa! Night after night, and Theon did nothing!”

“You don’t understand,” she repeated, tears in her eyes. “He couldn’t. But he was there. Ramsay made him watch.”

Jon took a beat, his chest heaving with his breaths, as he considered his sister’s words. “Whatd’you mean?” he rushed. “Made him watch what?”

But Sansa only stared back at him with an agonized face, her tears now rolling down her cheeks. She worried the chain hanging from her iron ring, looping the links around her fingers over and over. An icy chill ran up Jon’s back.

“Fuck the gods, please tell me he didn’t …” He couldn’t even finish, the thought so abhorrent Jon didn’t want to dwell there. He turned away from her, his hands on his hips, and took another soldiering breath.

“It was my wedding night,” his sister said timorously, the words landing a punch to Jon’s gut. He wanted to be sick, and he swallowed hard as he pushed the wave of nausea away. There was no end to Ramsay’s depravity in his sister’s stories. “Ramsay had Theon deliver me at the heart tree in Father’s place. And when we returned to the castle … he made him stay in the room. He wouldn’t let Theon close his eyes,” she gasped, weeping openly, her breaths coming fast and harsh.

Jon went to her quickly, wrapping his arms around her waist to draw her close, a hand sliding up her back. “Sansa,” he soothed in her ear, “it’s over, don’t think on it, please.” She held him tight to her chest, crying quietly into his neck, but after only a moment she pulled away, her jaw set with a grim determination.

“I’m tired of weeping about what he did like a stupid girl,” she said, her voice strong. “I merely want to impress upon you that I wasn’t the only one who suffered under Ramsay. What Theon went through was just as horrible. He was sorry for everything he did to our family. He told me, I could see it in his face. _I’m sorry, I’m sorry,_ he cried, over and over. Theon didn’t even want me to forgive him, because he didn’t think he deserved it. When Stannis’s army arrived, I knew it was my only chance to get help. I saw them on the field, saw Ramsay’s army swarm them from where I waited up in the Broken Tower, lighting that stupid candle as if anyone could do anything. Ramsay destroyed them in minutes; the battle was lost before it began. And so I knew I’d have to save myself. But Miranda, that odious shit, trapped me on the ramparts. And then Theon saved me, he saved my life. We jumped from the walls of the castle, right into the thickest pile of snow, and he held my hand the entire way, breaking my fall with his own body. He led me across the river, protected me from Bolton soldiers. I never would have made it to you without him.”

“You said it was Brienne who cut down Ramsay’s soldiers,” Jon reminded her. “That you and Theon were trapped by the dogs.”

“Jon, stop. You need to listen to me,” his sister demanded. “He would have died for me. He would have taken me all the way to you, he said, knowing you’d probably kill him. But you can’t.” Sansa grabbed his arms, cuffing his elbows. “You have to promise me you won’t, Jon, that you’ll never harm him.”

Jon sighed in defeat as her hands slid down and she held his wrists, keeping him near. “All right, Sansa. All right. You’ve made your point,” he said softly. “You win. I’ll leave him alone.”

Sansa closed her eyes with relief, another tear escaping under her lashes before she reached for him, her arms about his neck as she hugged him once more. “Thank you, Jon,” she whispered in soft breaths against the side of his face. She leaned away from him to wipe at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to get so upset.”

“I hadn’t realized how strongly you felt,” he admitted. “I should have paid more attention before.” He sighed. “You never told me you watched Stannis get defeated in the field.” That explained a lot.

“Didn’t I?” She stepped away from him and peered closer into his face, cupping his cheeks with both her hands. “And what of you, Jon? You seemed much better today. Did you really get enough rest last night? I worry about you.”

“I am better,” he told her. “I apologize again for scaring you. Everything is fine now.”

Relief again swept over her face but she still studied him closely. “Good,” she said with a half-hearted smile. She glanced to the pile on his desk before looking back at him. “I suppose I should let that continue then, and leave you to get some proper sleep. I’ll see these get to the ravens, and then tomorrow … well, tomorrow there will be plenty to do.” She suddenly perked up, her smile widening infectiously. “You should come and see the pups in the kitchen. I’ll introduce you to them. They’re getting swollen little potbellies with the mixture that Stefon has been feeding them.”

“I’ll do that then,” he said, smiling back. Sansa started to collect his scrolls and Jon was further shocked that she was actually going to head to bed. His smile broadened at the news. But watching his sister in profile as she gathered his scrolls, their heated argument over Theon had him returning to something Lord Royce had said only this morning, a bit of information that had stayed in his mind.

“Sansa, before you go. I meant to ask you something earlier.” She looked up in question. “Lord Royce mentioned your Aunt Lysa at this morning’s feast.”

Sansa frowned. “Yes? What about her?”

“You told me at Castle Black that she suffered from melancholy. That she threw herself through the moon door of the castle and fell to her death. But Lord Royce implied that she treated you poorly?”

Sansa stiffened, her eyes going back to the scrolls. “Oh. Right. She was … well, she was unwell, as I said. Aunt Lysa was a … a jealous woman, I learned. Delusional. She saw betrayal where there was none.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at her. “Jealous of what?”

His sister looked suddenly nervous, as she put down the scrolls and sat back in his chair. “She saw something,” Sansa stated. “And assumed I was a threat to her. She didn’t actually – ” She paused and stared at Jon with a passing fear.

“She didn’t actually _what_ , Sansa?” He shrugged in askance. “Why can’t you tell me?”

“I don’t want you to get angry again,” Sansa huffed.

That did nothing to allay Jon’s growing concern. “Why would I get angry? What did she see?”

Sansa looked down to her knees for a moment, before heaving a sigh and returning his gaze. “She saw Petyr kiss me,” she admitted, her voice quiet.

It was Jon’s turn to frown. “Petyr?” His mind raced. “Are you referring to Baelish?”

“It was just a peck on the lips,” she continued in a rush. “He was thanking me. She saw us and … assumed we were lovers. It was mad. She started yelling at me, squeezing my arm and not letting me go. I told her I was a virgin; that Lord Baelish had only ever watched out for me like an uncle would. But she pressed me to the edge of the opened moon door, threatened to push me out. I could feel the wind hitting my face, like ice slicing into my cheek.” Sansa’s eyes went bigger. “I screamed and cried. I begged her to stop. But she was so convinced I was treacherous. And then Petyr was there, and he calmed her down. She confessed to killing her husband. Giving him tears of Lys in his wine. All so she could be with Petyr.”

“ _She_ murdered Jon Arryn?” Why had Sansa never revealed this before? But it was the sudden image of Baelish kissing his sister which made him curl his hands into fists. He’d never wanted to punch a man in the face so much since Alliser Thorne. “Your aunt was responsible for our father having to go south as Robert’s Hand _and_ essentially started the War of the Five Kings, and you’re just telling me now? We lost most of our family in that war, Sansa.” He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. “And what happened then? She simply jumped?” he asked hotly, with a great amount of doubt.

Sansa’s gaze was locked to his, and she worried at her chain again. “Not exactly.”

Jon was growing impatient. “Someone perhaps _helped_ her?”

“You can’t say _anything_ ,” she insisted with a shake of her head. “It’s … information. Important information that we hold over Littlefinger. I kept it from Royce and the council, protected him. He owes me a lot.”

“So you’re telling me that Baelish killed your Aunt Lysa. And now holds the power of the Vale. And I should do nothing?” Jon didn’t know how he was supposed to feel about this. That Sansa kept it from him was alarming enough. That yet another traitorous cunt had somehow managed to save his sister’s life from calamity was starting to irritate him. “He owes you, yet he sold you to the Boltons anyway,” Jon reminded her. “And now we host him _here_?” His sister’s reasoning so often confounded him.

“Jon, it’s complicated. But I know him. I know what he wants. We just need to let him think he’s smarter than us. Allow him to get comfortable enough and he’ll eventually make a mistake.”

“Aye, it’s complicated alright. And what _does_ he want, Sansa?” He tipped his chin at her. “ _You?”_ Sansa only stared back at him with big eyes. “I don’t want you near him,” he decreed. “Not anymore. I don’t want him touching you.” The very thought made his skin crawl.

“Jon, I can’t do that. We need his men. He expects to be in my company daily.” She stood up, no longer demure. “I’ll be fine.”

“You just admitted that he kissed you.” He wondered what other improprieties Baelish had inflicted upon his sister.

“It won’t happen again,” she assured him. “I can handle him.” Jon thought his sister too confident in her abilities and was about to say so but she grabbed for his arm and smiled warmly. “I can. You don’t have to worry.” She suddenly leaned over and pressed her mouth to his, but pulled away just as quickly. “You leave Littlefinger to me. You have more important things to be concerned with.”

Sansa turned again to scoop up his scrolls. “Now I’ll get a basket for these from my room and then I’ll be off to the rookery,” she said. “Walk me out?”

Jon let out another deep sigh before taking her arm. “Fine, Sansa.”

******

He was dreaming.

At least, it felt like a dream. Jon was with his sister. In his bed. His mouth was on her. Her body was writhing under him. He knew it was Sansa, heard her moan for him, such a sweet sound. The pulse at the tip of his tongue, buried inside her, was waning, dying, heartbeat by heartbeat. _Jon,_ he heard, guttural, raspy. His tongue chased that pulse: life, heat, digging deeper for it, but even the warmth was fading. He needed it, needed it to sustain him, to hold him here in this world.

_Jon._

He raised his eyes and his sister’s skin was so white, her veins showing, trails of varying blues and purples still beneath her flesh like frozen streams. _Jo-o-o-o-on_. Sansa drew herself up on her arms, her blue eyes piercing now, brilliant lights in those sockets bearing down on him, a manic smile in her face, teeth white.

 _Sansa_ , he groaned. Her mouth opened, a gaping maw that stretched wider and wider, black and starry inside of it, and Jon felt himself slipping into the space there, into that night sky of her mouth, felt himself swallowed up. _Sansa_ , he sobbed. _No_. Not Sansa, too. She was all he had left.

Jon opened his eyes. The door of his chambers showed a rim of light around its edges, faint but bold enough that he could make out his cape on its hook to the right of it. He listened in the darkness. Listened for the children. He heard flames licking behind him. Heard Ghost’s steady sleeping breaths. Jon waited. Expecting the skittering clicks over the stone walls as they moved. Scratching. Scuttling.

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there listening. The room faded out. Faded in. He felt a sigh in his chest, the gust of air escape him, his eyes burning. Then he heard it, finally.

A door opened, the subtle change in the room’s vibrations alerting him to it, the sound barely there. His eyes were on the door in front of him, but it hadn’t moved. Feet shuffled closer to him. Jon heard the slight whine of Ghost’s yawn. He was awake then, not dreaming.

He lay on his chest, a pillow tucked under him, but Jon rose up on an elbow, turning his head to look over his shoulder.

Sansa stood in the center of his room watching him. She wore her smock, the ties at her throat already open; he could see the fullness of her breasts in the gap. His sister stared at him blearily, her eyes normal but searching.

“Sansa,” he whispered. “What is it?”

She pinched the top of her smock in her fingers and peeled it to either side of her shoulders, opening it until it exposed her, until she could push her smock down over her arms and let it drop to the floor. She stood before him, nude and unashamed, pale in the moonlight from his window but her skin glowing. Her eyes never leaving his face.

“Come here,” he called to her.

Instantly, she moved, tiptoeing to him, until she could draw back his covers and slide into his bed behind him, pressing herself to his back. Jon felt the heat of her melt into him and he sighed, it felt good, her breasts against his body. He knew he should be ashamed but he didn’t have the energy for it. His sister leaned down her head and kissed the top of his shoulder so tenderly.

“Are you alright?” he asked, still half turned towards her, reaching an arm around to hold the back of her head while clutching his pillow beneath him like a rock that jutted from the waves.

Sansa looked at him fully, her eyes glassy with a wellspring of tears. “I don’t want you to be sad,” she told him plaintively, her anguish carving into him the way his murderers’ blades had done.

“I don’t know how else to be, Sansa,” he told her truthfully, the two of them here in the dark where his sister could become his confessor. “I’m sorry. I’m trying.”

“Let me help you. Please,” she begged quietly, the air hushed, compressed with their need to comfort each other. Her hand traveled down the side of his body, under the hem of his nightshirt to rove over the growing firmness of him. Her skin felt cool on him and he flashed back on his dream for a moment, a shiver running through him.

“Sansa,” he murmured, full of his despair. How his sister had been damaged was an unending source of pain for him. “What is it you want?”

“I want to put my mouth on you there. I want to give you pleasure, Jon.”

“You do give me pleasure. Just by your presence here. You don’t need to do that.”

“Would Ygritte do it for you?” she asked, her hand now stroking him.

“Ygritte was my lover, Sansa. We made love to each other.” He thought of what her rapist had done to her. “I don’t want you to think of those things he made you do when you’re here. To feel you need to … render them meaningless somehow, by doing them to me.”

Sansa’s eyes remained glued to his as she spoke in that dark voice of hers, flat and emotionless, that made the hair on the back of his neck rise. “He made me put my mouth on him, but he never finished there, never made me swallow his seed. He would always fill me with it, deep in my cunt, so I would give him his heir. It was like hot poison running through me. He would batter into me so hard I would see stars in my eyes, would feel it for days.” She shook her head hard. “You could never be like that.”

Jon finally leaned back, shifting them so he could hold her to him, Sansa clinging to his side while he curved a hand around the swell of her bottom to press her into his thigh.

“Why do you want to taste me?” The tips of his fingers trailed up and down her back, enjoying the feel of the ridges in her spine, the sheer softness of her skin. “What do you think it will do?”

“It might make you happy,” she answered in a whisper. “Even if it’s just for a moment. I want you to feel your pleasure when you orgasm, to let me hold you while you do it.” Her grip between his legs tightened. “Please. Let me help you, Jon.”

Jon sucked in a deep breath, let it rush out of him in a sigh. “All right, Sansa,” he acquiesced. But then he palmed the back of her skull, his hand almost covering the base of it, and dragged her down to meet his mouth, his tongue entwining with hers, their breaths hot, Sansa so earnest when she kissed him it broke his heart. She moved over him, the kiss growing frantic, until she was pulling away to kiss at his face, at his neck, gnawing at the knob of his throat, moving down to lick the hollow there, to kiss at his nipple, her tongue wetting it through his shirt. She rose up, pawing at it impatiently.

“Take this off,” she said hurriedly, her breathy commands hardening his cock until he could feel it in the hole of his arse. He leaned up with her, raising his arms so she could pull it up over his head, Jon feeling caught up in her frenzied motions, in her encompassing desire for him. As soon as it was dragged over his hair, before he could even get his arms free, Sansa was kissing him again, her tongue all over him, licking him, sucking on his bottom lip, and her grip on his cock now loosened and sliding up and down the rigid length of him.

“Gods, Sansa,” he breathed as she dropped his shirt over the edge of his bed, slid her long body down his own until her face hovered over the throbbing meat of him. She gave him a determined glance before returning to his cock, sliding back his skin so she could put her full mouth on him, the head already wet for her, giving his sister that first taste of him. She made a joyful noise in her throat, her mouth never leaving him but widening enough to take the whole of the glans past her lips. Jon sucked in a hard breath, trying not to be shocked, to just be with her, but then he saw Sansa over him as a young girl, before she’d left with Father and Arya for King’s Landing, no more than three and ten, and Jon had to look away, had to let the moment pass before it crushed him under its weight.

“Is it alright?” his sister asked. “Am I doing it wrong?”

Jon looked back at her face, and she was here, now, this Sansa a grown woman. A woman that many men would count themselves lucky to have – especially in their beds, with her mouth on their cock. He stroked the side of her face, seeing how lovely she truly was.

“No. I was just … I was just thinking.”

“Of what? Do you not like it?”

“I do,” he assured her. “I was just thinking that I would like to taste you as well. To have my mouth on you at this moment.”

“Well, let me pleasure you first, and then I’ll climb on your face.”

“We can do both,” he reasoned. “At the same time.”

For a moment, Sansa looked doubtful. “We can?”

“Yes, just as you suggested before, with you laying the other way. You can put yourself over my mouth and … and then you can explore me as you wish while I kiss you there.”

Sansa pondered the thought for a beat before a smile bloomed across her face. “I like the sound of that,” she said, her desire sparking brightly in her eyes.

“Good. Then why don’t you bring your legs to me.” He reached for her bum, molding his hand to it so he could turn her on her side and coax her up on her knees. “Bring your knees down by my shoulders.”

Sansa rose up on all fours, bringing herself backwards until she knelt by his head. She looked down at him for but a second before raising her knee over his chest to spread it across him, her legs split so wide his view was dominated by her sex.

“This way?” she asked, the excitement in her voice barely contained.

“Yes,” Jon breathed. _Gods, yes_. His hands ran up her body and down again until they anchored her hips and he lifted her, angling her over him until he could position her glistening cunt right where he needed her. He gripped the cheeks of her arse in both of his hands and dragged her body down, his tongue ready as he licked the length of her, from point to point. He felt her mouth on him again and groaned into her, his lips already smeared with her need for him, and Jon closed his mind, felt himself drop into that black sky, floating, free.

From this angle, he couldn’t see Sansa’s face, didn’t have to be reminded that this was his sister’s cunt. It could be any woman, any cunt, _the_ cunt, his entire world. A portal, through which Jon could be transported, could bring him back from the other side. This well from whence he came, this was life, here in his mouth. Life that he’d had and lost, yet had been given a chance to drink from once more. He needed it. The arousal in his mouth was sweet and earthy, it was a taste of spring. And Jon drank deeply, wanting so badly to feel whole for a short time, in the time it took for him to make this spring gush into his throat. He heard a high note below him, a trailing moan of pleasure that was so wanton, so raw, Jon opened his mouth wider, begged for more, his tongue deep as he brought her seat down on him, his nose pressed to her, one thumb swirling circles around the clit, the other dipping into the sodden slit of her where his tongue couldn’t reach, sliding back out to tease the other hole on offer with wet strokes. Sansa jerked in his grasp but let him widen her, let him split the seam of her arse, and with little urging Jon soon had a thumb encased, sliding in the other, a plug in each opening, his lips sucking that little feminized prick until it pulsed for him, maddening, incessant, needy, bleating for him: lick me, want me, need me. And he did. Jon did what it wanted of him. Until he felt a surge of arousal fill his mouth, a hazy part of his mind registering that a hand was stroking his cock, steady and sure, a tongue dabbing the cut in its end, and it all felt good, this body felt good. And then a breathy moan filled his head, a sharp cry of surprise, a seizing grip on his tongue, Jon gulping the stream from this cunt with a slavering devotion.

“Jon, wait,” he heard in the distance, but he couldn’t stop. He was fucking this hole with his tongue still, letting it pull him along, grip him tightly, her hips moving so that she rubbed herself back and forth over his face, and Jon held on to that bud, seized it, loved it, and in no time at all, it was gushing a second time, pouring over him as Jon tried to drink from this fountain, stretched his mouth to capture it all, but it trickled over his lips, cascaded down through his beard, over his chin, dripping down his neck until it slid into a pool at the base of his throat, the pulse of his heart in the hollow there assuring him that he was alive, that he was here.

The touches and kisses of his sister slowly penetrated the fog of his mind – he could tell she was hesitant still, her mouth staying to the end of him, her hand stroking him languorously. He switched his thumb for two long fingers, easing them into her as he attacked her nub anew, fucking and sucking her, her legs squeezing him tight as she whimpered, her breasts dragging across him, nipples into hard points that scraped on his scars. His tongue worked feverishly to get him replenishment, his sister rising off of him for a brief spell while his fingers fucked her with ease, and he heard his own noises, his need for her spilling out of him in groans and grunts.

When she came in his mouth a third time, he heard her whine from above, sounding pained, her bum sliding from his grip, her honey dribbling from his mouth, dripping over his chest as she removed herself.

“Jon, stop,” she demanded, her body now moving completely off of him, as her knee just narrowly missed his head.

Sansa sat up and looked down at him with big eyes, panting from their exertions as her body shuddered.

“What is it,” he heard himself say, feeling groggy, as though waking out of a daze.

“You need to give me a chance to … to recover,” she laughed. “Gods, Jon, you can slow down, you know.”

“I’m sorry,” he said instantly, sliding his body up to lay back against the headboard. He reached over to stroke her bottom soothingly. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine, _are you_?”

“Of course, Sansa. What … what can I do for you then? Tell me.”

She turned away shyly, her hair covering her face. “It’s what I can do for you,” she hushed. “I’m not as … I can’t do it like you.”

“What do you mean? Do what?”

She leaned over his hip, with Jon’s straining erection an exclamation between them. “I don’t know if I want to take all of it in my mouth,” she clarified, her gaze fixed to his body and away from his eyes. “I don’t want to gag on it.”

Jon exhaled slowly, staring with some interest at what she’d done to him so far. “Well, I wouldn’t want you to, Sansa, I told you. We can do whatever you like, whatever feels comfortable for you.”

“No, you’re not listening,” she insisted. “I _want_ to pleasure you, to taste you, but I can’t do it as fast as you. I want you to show me how you like it. To help me.”

He cleared his throat, imagining his face must be covered with her, but trying to stay composed. “I see. But I’m not sure what you’re expecting. I don’t think I’ve any specific needs you’re not fulfilling. You were doing fine.”

“It was _fine?_ ” She did not seem pleased with the assessment. “That helps me loads.” She hung her head. “I don’t want to upset you again.”

He took another deep sigh, wiping a hand over his face. “Lay along my side,” he directed. She began to shift her body down on his right, but he shook his head. “No, on the other side. I’ll do this and you can … you can watch.”

“All right.” She curled into his side, laying her head to his chest, and they both watched while he took himself in hand. It was easy to fall into an immediate rhythm, and Sansa clung to him as he stroked himself for her, his other arm wrapped across the small of her back as he cupped her arse again. He sighed deeply, dropping into the comfortable feel of it, knowing his desire had been rushing too hard, he’d overwhelmed Sansa with it,

“Your heart isn’t even beating fast,” Sansa rumbled into his chest, rubbing her fingertip over a nipple until it hardened for her. “Are you relaxed?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he muttered, speeding up his strokes. He couldn’t close his mind this time, as he needed to pay attention to his sister.

“Can I kiss you while you do that?” she asked.

“If you wish,” he answered, expecting her to reach up to press her mouth to his. He was only mildly surprised when she leaned down instead and kissed the end of him, where it slid in and out of his grip. Her mouth stuck fast to the head of his cock as he pumped it for her. When her tongue darted out to lick the wetness there Jon had to pause, to restrain the urge to thrust into her face.

“Take hold of my balls,” he coaxed, his voice graveled. “Kiss the scar on my thigh.” He knew she was drawn to them.

Sansa did what he asked, her eyes lit brightly with her grip tight around him, glancing up to him every now and again to make sure he approved before making her way up his body to kiss a nipple tenderly.

“Bite down on it,” he said, teeth gritting with his need, the only sound in the room coming from the rapid fisting of his cock. Sansa’s eyes flashed to his again as she did it, he saw the white of her teeth before her lips clamped down on him.

“Squeeze your hand harder,” he urged. “Tug them down.” He was getting closer.

“Like this,” she asked, leaning down to drag his testicles until he winced.

“Yes, like that." His hand never slowed, but he watched her touch him, watched as she pinched a nipple between her thumb and forefinger. “Harder.”

“I want you to release in my mouth,” his sister told him, eyes shining. “Tell me when you’re near.” She dropped her head again to kiss by his groin, kissing lower, before putting her nose right into the middle of his sac and kissing him there.

“ _For fuck’s sake_ ,” he hissed, he wouldn’t last much longer. Sansa licked from the root of him upwards, over his fingers where they shuddered, back to the top where her lips stretched over the flared end of him and he watched it disappear into her mouth. He groaned deeply, recalling how she’d sopped him up last time, how shocking it had been, and yet here he was wondering how it would feel to pump his seed right into her waiting mouth. She suddenly turned her body, climbing on him so that she straddled his legs.

“Sansa, what are you doing?” His sister’s sudden movements were a consistent cause for concern – he never knew what she might do.

She didn’t answer him but leaned down, her breasts hanging low enough to brush against his thighs and then she was capturing his steeliness between them, shoving his hand down and pressing warm flesh to either side of him. It felt magical, and Jon stared hungrily at her, caught in a spell as she rubbed her breasts up and down the length of his cock, watched as it peeked out at the top of their fullness and his sister tucked her chin into her neck so she could kiss the dew pooling there at the tip of him. He choked with his need to come, to see what she would do next.

“Sansa,” he groaned. “Please. Let me finish.”

Sansa pulled her breasts away and then Jon was fisting himself again, his hand racing, everything in his body flowing, drawing to that nexus, a river rushing, and Sansa dropped her head again and this time her mouth wrapped around him and stayed there, as he jacked his member into her, his grunts coming faster, and Sansa holding on, Jon taking hold of her shoulder to keep her there, until light poured into him, blessed light, warm, hot, filling, and he thrust up, his hand still pumping and then that explosion of stars behind his eyes, a sob in his chest, and he watched it, watched Sansa grab hold of him, staying with him while he filled her mouth with it.

He was panting so hard, his sight went black for a moment, and then Sansa was looking down at him, her face looming closer, and he knew she held his seed in her mouth, an offering. When she kissed him, he opened his mouth wide to receive it, thankful for it, wanting to rid his sister of his poison. He swallowed all that he could, holding her head tight in his hands, keeping her there as he wrapped his tongue with hers and made her clean. He raised himself up, moved Sansa under him as he rolled them over, their mouths still hot and flushed against each other, Jon deepening the kiss until she moaned in him. He wanted his sister sated, exhausted, but she pressed a hand to the side of his head. “ _Jon_ ,” she breathed harshly, trying to drag her lips away from his. “I need air.”

Jon sat up, his heart definitely beating out of his chest now. He glanced to the hearth where Ghost watched them curiously, fully alert with ears back, and then Jon craned his neck to look back where Sansa lay panting as well, the glow of the fire sending a dark ring around her body.

“Are you all right?” he asked again, still breathing heavily.

“I think so,” she gasped with eyes closed. She looked up at him warmly and grabbed for his hand to hold it. “What about you? Was it good? Did it make you happy?”

“It … it was very intense, Sansa,” he told her, dropping down on his chest to lie beside her. “But pleasurable. I hope it wasn’t scary for you.”

“Not at all, it felt … _extraordinary_ ,” she murmured, a triumphant grin on her face.

“Really? It wasn’t … the taste of it, didn’t bother you?”

She shook her head as her breathing evened out, the grin growing lazier. “Should it have? It was quite alright, nothing terribly strong. It’s not as pungent as a woman’s taste.”

“Aye, we’re very different,” he agreed.

Sansa eyed him closely. “Was that the first time you tasted yourself? Other than the last time with me?”

“Perhaps once before. With another person.”

“A woman?”

“Yes, a woman. You know, just because I lived in a brotherhood, didn’t mean we were all into buggery.” He grinned back at her to show he was teasing as he tugged on the length of her hair.

“So it was Ygritte?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Not with the red witch?”

“Sansa, I don’t have to share with you every sexual experience I’ve ever had.”

“Fine, you don’t have to tell me who it was. I was merely curious.” His sister turned to study him again. “You’re quite … skilled.”

“Why do you sound surprised?”

“I just meant … you haven’t been with many lovers. So you’ve either done it a lot, or you’re very …” She turned away from him.

“I’m very _what_ , Sansa?” he asked cautiously.

“Intuitive, I suppose.” She looked back at him and stroked his face, her smile tender. “It’s interesting how you can make me orgasm so many times in such a short period, just with your mouth and your hands. You,” she raised an eyebrow, “put your finger in an unusual place.”

“I did, I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I should have asked you first about that. I didn’t think in the moment. I won’t do that again.”

“Oh, I didn’t mind it,” she said casually. “It was just a thumb, Jon. And certainly completely different to what Ramsay did there. He put it in me wherever he could. But that was unexpected, the way you had me corked in both places, and still you could do things with your tongue. It makes for quite a powerful orgasm.”

“ _Corked_?” He disapproved, but the mention of Ramsay did more to upset his delicate state of acceptance with Sansa than her language.

“Well, that’s what it felt like,” Sansa replied, their low murmurs mixing with the pops of remaining heat from the hearth. “Sometimes, you do surprise me.”

Jon shifted to lie on his side, putting his hand to Sansa’s belly to stroke her there, his fingers delicately following the rivulets of her scars. “In a good way?” He felt mildly amused and annoyed at once by her candor.

“Yes.” Sansa closed her eyes with a slow breath, the pleasure from his stroking so evident in the relaxing lines of her face. “You understand who people are.” Jon stroked her lower, down the tops of her thighs, and Sansa’s legs opened for him as she sighed contentedly. “That’s what makes you a good king.”

“You think so?” he rumbled into her skin, having leaned down to kiss one of the crosses on the top of her arm. His fingers now trailed to the inside of a thigh.

“I do,” she whispered. “Jon?”

“Yes?”

“I think I’m ready for another one now.”

Jon bent over her face. “All right,” he said before leaning down to kiss her.

There were no children in the room, no ghosts, just the two of them now, the moon in his window shining across them both. Jon spread his sister’s legs wider, moving his mouth down to her breast, suckling a nipple as his finger stroked the wetness collected in her cunt, painting it on her skin. Jon raised himself up to look down at his sister, her eyes on his so trusting and warm.

“What would you like me to do for you?”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I can only hope that all of you are doing the best you can out there. It's taken a while to get this up, but work has been insane in this crisis. I'm feeling overloaded most days. Wish I could say writing was therapy, but its tough some nights, staring at a blank screen and your brain can barely function.
> 
> Stay safe, stay home, and stay informed. Take care of yourselves, my dear readers. I worry.
> 
> Also, I'd like to mention that this is only the second fic I've ever written on this site to reach over 10k hits, so thanks so much for that. Hope you're all continuing to enjoy it.

**xiii.**

The days passed.

Sansa went to her brother every night, and every morning, she felt stronger, more in control of herself as her horrors lessened in their power, a dulled blade that could no longer slice into her insides. Instead she could concentrate on what Jon gave her in those moments when it was just the two of them, the rest of the world shut out. The nightmares had stopped, a blessed sign, and Sansa watched her pups grow bigger with anticipation. The traces of her tormentor’s assaults on her body were fading along with her scars, and in its place, Sansa felt the lingering pleasures of her brother’s kisses.

It was during the waking hours of the castle that Sansa felt strongest, however. As Lady of Winterfell and advisor to their king, Sansa’s responsibilities continued to mount. Yet she found it rewarding work, and watching Jon ease into his role as their ruler brought her as much pride as it did anxiety. Jon was so much like their father in the way that he dealt with people that it worried Sansa. Her brother was too trusting, expecting those who followed the Starks to stay true to their word. She knew that it was better to remain guarded, however, to assume the worst. It kept them safe. For all that she insisted that he couldn’t protect her, Sansa knew she was safe with Jon, he had proven it to her, and so she swore to protect her brother as well, as best she could, even if it was from his own nature.

And Jon seemed better in the last few days, not as vexed. Although there were times when she wondered where her brother’s mind had gone to; as they pleasured each other so intensely that he would slip into a stupor, sodden with her when she finally removed herself from his mouth while he blinked himself back from wherever he went. His eyes would clear and he would focus on her face then, ask if she was well. In fact, it rather irritated her, this consistent questioning, as if it wasn’t completely apparent that she enjoyed what he did to her with each climax on his tongue, often in quick succession. Sansa would assure him with smiles and coos of pleasure that she was good, while a deep insistence to satisfy her brother in return throbbed within her.

It was a pulse that stayed with her, sometimes throughout the entire day, until it would beat so loud in her body that she thought she might scream from it. And then Jon would give her a patient smile from across a table and Sansa would calm herself, would push her desire into a box until she could open it for him late at night, in his chambers, and pour it over his waiting lips.

This night was no different.

“Gods, yes, right there,” she hissed into his darkened room, the hearth still giving off heat as the walls turned a bluish black. Sansa dragged her cunt across her brother’s face. “Deeper,” she begged hoarsely.

She held Jon’s hands over her breasts as she made slow circles with her hips, rejoicing in the delicious things Jon’s tongue was doing to her as it penetrated her once more. She watched his organ swell for her from where she sat, her brother’s body laid out before her as she writhed on his face, and the power from such a position flooded her. As a queen might survey the land she ruled, Sansa stared across the flesh at her disposal and imagined the things she could do to it, imagined the things that Jon would allow her to do. They had already done so much, and yet Sansa’s twat begged for more, a constant and thrumming beat. Jon seemed to care not where he put his mouth when it came to her body, sweeping his tongue across every inch of her as a bitch might bathe her pups, even when it did not seem a place meant for kissing. But Ramsay had hurt her in those places as much as he had her womb, Sansa reasoned, and Jon’s attention to all of her wounds only reminded her how his body had once laid lifeless, how Jon had returned for her, for this moment, this act, this connection between them strengthening with every tryst in his bed. From this vantage, perched over his mouth, Sansa could hold her hands over his crude scars – none of them fading – and seek to heal them simply through her own sheer will.

Sansa stretched herself over her brother, reaching for his beautiful cock, and put her mouth on him, sucking on the cushioned tip of him the way a babe sucked on its mother’s teat. She felt stronger in this, too, learning what Jon liked in the past few nights by paying attention to the way his body moved with hers: the jerk of his hips, the way his heels dug into the bed, his body undulating like a wave underneath her. And his sighs into her cunt – or when she hit a good spot, a growl in his throat – merely drove her resolve to know him. All of the responses Jon gave her only fueled Sansa, adding to the power she felt as she lay over him. The fusion between them, their mouths on each other’s sex, was like no other sensation Sansa had ever experienced before, an infinite circle of energy created between them as it looped around and around, one feeding the other and back again. And the more she could take of his cock, the prouder she felt, in the way she could command his desire even as she spread her legs wider for Jon, knowing that he gained as much from this as she did. Feeling her brother’s tongue in her arse was no longer mortifying, but practically profound. He would do anything for her, she realized, Jon’s actions true to his word.

“Sansa, I’m close,” she heard him croak, but Sansa sucked harder, her grip tightening around his testicles just the way he liked. She breathed out through her nose, feeling the tufts in her eyes, as she lowered her head, taking as much as she ever had, but wanting to procure his release, goaded by his moans and grunts the entire time, the swearing only arousing her more.

 _You will take this Bolton boy - Ramsay - and make him yours_ , Littlefinger had instructed her once, down in the crypts in front of her Aunt Lyanna’s statue. _I don’t know how to do that_ , she’d insisted. _Yes, you do_ , Petyr had told her, his faith in her so complete. But he’d been wrong; she’d let Ramsay diminish her, terrify her into submission. Of course, Littlefinger had been wrong about a great many things in his maneuverings with the Boltons. But with Jon … with Jon, she understood what Petyr had meant, what Cersei had tried to teach her, in how to win a man over through the part of him that dictated so much of his actions. Even her brother wasn’t immune, and that was a sobering thought. She’d been a fool then, just as Ramsay had claimed, but she knew better now.

Jon lifted up his hips to feed her all he had, while Sansa felt his fingers deep inside her, his lips fused to her bean as it throbbed and screamed its need, and then they were joined, inseparable, and Jon filled her mouth as she filled his, Sansa aloft on the current they generated together like a sparrow locked in the wind’s stream, spirited along, buoyant and free.

Afterwards, Sansa turned herself around so she could deposit her gain into his mouth, Jon receiving it willingly. She fed him their shared desire, one which she had summoned, and the very act empowered her in a manner that bordered on parental, as Sansa continued to be enlightened by her brother, an understanding growing every day that Jon was not like most men.

She curled into his side when they were done, and stretched her body alongside his with such contentment she almost purred, her nose in his neck as she breathed in his sweat, licking the running drops of perspiration from his skin.

“Stop,” he rumbled.

“Why?” she asked in a teasing note. “I’m giving you a bath. I know how you love them.”

“You’re trying to get me up for another go and it’s not going to happen, Sansa,” he chastised tiredly, his tone light. “We have another long day tomorrow.”

He held her with his arm across her back, his hand scooping the swell of her bottom in that possessive way of his that secretly delighted her.

“There are so many people at work in the courtyard these last few days that it’s getting harder to keep track of who’s doing what. Brienne was complaining that there’s nowhere to train the children properly.”

“We can look at bringing them into the Keep. Or perhaps clear the tables for the afternoons in the Great Hall,” Jon replied.

“Did she speak to you about your Master-of-Arms? Apparently, she doesn’t feel he’s provided the young girls the proper attention, that he’s not taking your order seriously.”

“He’s _your_ Master-of-Arms, Sansa, but no, she hasn’t. I’ll talk to her and Ser Donnar in the morning.”

Sansa’s head lay on his shoulder and she swept her fingers across Jon’s chest, circling her nail around the moon-shaped scar over his heart. This one still angered her the most. “You appointed him. He’ll listen to you.”

“But you’re the Lady of Winterfell. Ned Stark’s daughter. That carries a lot of respect. I daresay, they respect you more so the king they chose. When you give an order, you need to demand they follow it. Now is not the time for personal opinions.”

“Well, I tried that once and Lord Glover practically spit in my face,” she argued, remembering the encounter with some heat warming her cheeks. Seeing him grovel before Jon had been so satisfying, but her brother had forgiven him too easily.

“Glover doesn’t like to take risks. It’s understandable, with all that they’ve suffered under the Boltons and the Ironborn, but I don’t think it has penetrated his thick skull that we’re all at risk right now, and that whinging about outsiders adds nothing to the conversation. We need practical solutions.” Jon sounded resigned to their continued complaints, his exhaustion there in his voice.

“Do you think that if they had a better understanding of what’s coming, that you might have more cooperation?” she wondered. The stories were plentiful, but Northerners were a superstitious lot, and an attempt to extract the truth from tall tales was no easy undertaking. 

“And how am I to do that, Sansa?” he groused. “We don’t have time to convince every Northerner that dead men march, that the scary stories they heard as children on their father’s knee are true. I just need them to do what they’re told.” He sighed heavily. “There are times when you need to listen, and times when you need to lead. I was told once that leadership means that when you’re in charge you’ll get second guessed by every clever little twat with a mouth. It’s when you start to second guess yourself that you’re finished.”

“Who told you that?” She didn’t know if she agreed.

“It doesn’t matter, he’s dead now. Executed.”

“Doesn’t sound like he was a very good leader then,” she said, before pressing her lips to the side of a nipple. Sansa raised herself up on an elbow, pressing her arm across Jon’s chest as she looked down upon his solemn face. “If we can’t even convince all of our own, how on earth do you expect to convince anyone below the Neck? Even my Uncle Edmure won’t help us in this fight. I mean, I know he’s useless, but we’re family. That should have counted for something.”

Jon breathed heavily again. “I don’t know exactly how, Sansa, but I’ll have to try. We can’t defeat them on our own.”

“But we’re doing everything we can to prepare,” she added with some anxiousness, her brows scrunching together.

“I’m aware of that,” he said gruffly. “And it’s not enough. You haven’t seen him … seen what he can do,” Jon finished, the fear in his voice making Sansa’s heart skip faster.

“Is he … like a man, at all?” she asked in a hushed whisper.

“I don’t know how to describe him,” Jon whispered back, filled with awe. “But the power there is tremendous. He looked right at me, from across the bodies piled on the shore - families, old people, children … but he met my gaze. Acknowledged _me_. He wanted me to see, to know. And then he smiled – or what passed for one. Raised his arms slowly. And those who had been slaughtered, all of those people I couldn’t save ... I saw them rise for him.”

Sansa’s flesh stippled as Jon spoke, imagining the horror her brother had seen. “I hope you aren’t planning on suggesting single combat with him, too,” she said dryly, although not quite in jest. The way he spoke was distressing, her thoughts flashing to the way Jon goaded Ramsay during the parley. Jon was too quick to be the hero, she knew, and would put himself in harm’s way if it meant saving others. But Jon ignored her, continuing with his description.

“His face is white as the ice. A crown of shards on his head,” he added with a swirl of his fingers around his own head. “His appearance mimics a man. Perhaps he was one once. But he is a demon, make no mistake. A scourge. Dormant for thousands of years, but returned with a purpose.”

“So you think there is some intelligence there? That there is a plan in place, with the way he attacks?”

“Aye, there’s definitely intelligence.” Jon rubbed a hand over his eyes, a signal that he was growing tired of the discussion. “But a plan? I don’t know. Possibly. Likely. Is there any intelligent way to describe what _I’m_ doing here? How I’m even able to draw breath? I can’t answer these questions for you, Sansa.”

“But if we can’t find dragonglass anywhere, who can really help us?” she considered. “Regular weapons won’t do, so what will a southron army be able to provide if we can manage to even acquire one? And what do we even have to bargain with?” She still worried about the possibility of marriage to solidify an alliance, the more that her brother talked of needing them. It wasn’t even the notion that she might have to marry that concerned her, with Jon’s promise to her. But her brother was a king now, and an unmarried one at that. Sansa lay her head back down and pressed her body to his, clutching Jon tighter to her. She didn’t want him to leave their home.

“I need to appeal to those who might help us that we are in this together, just as I did with the Freefolk. The North has nothing to bargain with, Sansa. We need every last resource we have for our own.”

“Well, we can appeal to them without giving up our independence,” she reminded him. “Cersei knows now that you won’t bend the knee to her. You’re a threat, and she won’t back away from a threat. She’s still a danger to us. To _you_. I won’t have her do the same thing to you that the Mad King did to our uncle and grandfather.”

Jon pulled her closer to him with his arm pressed to her back, before moving a hand to her head to stroke her hair. “I told you, Sansa, I have no plans to visit King’s Landing. She’s not a woman that one can reason with, so it’s no use to try.”

“Good.” Sansa turned her face into his chest, kissed his skin there, moving her head lower to place her lips on a jagged scar. “I don’t want you to leave Winterfell ever,” she told him. She moved lower to his belly and Jon gripped the back of her neck to stop her.

“Sansa, what did I say?” he reminded her gently.

“ _Shhh_ ,” she soothed while she moved her body lower to kiss her brother’s stiffening cock.

* * *

When she awoke in the morning, Sansa knew something was off immediately. She felt poorly, her breasts tender and her stomach and loins aching, a sticky film between her thighs. Her dreams had been dominated by her brother’s hands on her body, of her riding his cock, him filling her inside, yet she intuited that the wetness wasn’t from her morning arousal. She flung back her covers with dread; saw the red patch on her white smock as her heart sank. Sansa groaned in annoyance. With her moonblood upon her, this meant she couldn’t visit Jon for several nights. She threw herself back against her pillows and groaned even louder. “”Fuck!” she uttered into her chambers, in a harsh and guttural gasp, feeling naughty but justified in her profanity. As if on cue, there was a knock on the door right before it opened.

“Good morning, Lady Sansa!” Taria sang as she entered, bearing a tray with Sansa’s tea and some hot towels on a plate for her toilette. When the girl came around to the other side of the bed to leave the tray on the table, however, she got a look at her lady’s face and frowned. “Oh, you don’t look well, m’lady.”

“I don’t feel so well, either, Taria,” Sansa admitted. She pointed to the towels on the table and Taria brought the plate they sat on towards her. “It’s my moonblood. I need to have a bath drawn and brought to me, and the sheets will need to be changed.”

“Oh, of course, Lady Sansa, right away.” Taria wrinkled her brows in concern. “Will you be needin’ the maester? Or would you like me to bring you anything special from the kitchens?”

“Could you have Maester Wolkan send me a tonic for my aches? I don’t need him to visit. Also, make sure that Connor has fed the pups. I’ll break my fast in my chambers this morning so have Stefon send me up some lemon curd for my scone, and I’ll have some porridge with blackberries. Let the king know that I’m indisposed today.”

“Yes, m’lady, I’ll see to it right now,” Taria said breathlessly as she bustled to the edge of Sansa’s bed to hand her a warm towel. “Shall I get you your chamber pot, or will you head to the privy?”

“Chamber pot.” She watched Taria dither around the room trying to decide where to begin first. “You’d best get Mhaegan to help,” she encouraged, sliding the towel under the furs to press between her legs. Feeling the steady pulse there, she recalled how many times her brother had coaxed an orgasm out of her in the early hours of the dawn and was thankful at least that she’d been sated so thoroughly before this interruption to her nightly bliss. Jon could probably use the extra hours for some proper sleep, she thought with some pragmatism, knowing she’d kept him up perhaps longer than was prudent. But this pause in their activities was a sharp reminder to Sansa that her body had grown quite accustomed to these evening pleasures and to go without it even for a single night could become a trial for her. She felt crabby just considering it and her day had only begun.

When both girls returned several minutes later, Sansa finally climbed out of bed, allowing her handmaidens to attend to her. They moved her around as if she were an invalid, holding her up under her arms on either side of her, removed her linens, and brought her more towels. Sansa sat behind a screen in isolation as her copper tub was brought to her chambers and filled with hot water. It felt wonderful when she could finally ease herself into it, still dressed in her stained smock, the heat ebbing away her pains. Laying there as Mhaegen and Taria harried about, Sansa thought of Jon’s need for warmth as he lounged in his baths and wondered at his body’s persistent temperature. To lie atop Jon was to feel consumed. On some nights, luxurious, on others, quite overwhelming, the heat sometimes stifling as Jon brought her off once again, sweat rolling profusely down both of their bodies. She imagined that even the hot springs below the castle didn’t churn out as much heat as her brother.

Once she was back in bed, Mhaegen brought her meal to her lap, combing out Sansa’s hair while she ate. Her aches had barely subsided, but she felt warm and cocooned under her furs, the mattress heated for her, the linens fresh, the lemon curd delicious, and the sweep of a brush over her scalp soothing. The cloth between her legs was thick and warming as it soaked with her blood. Mhaegen would be back in an hour to change it, but in the meanwhile, Sansa read through one of the books from her brother’s office to assist with the research on the long night. She was just barely a chapter in, when she heard another knock on her door. Sansa waited for Mhaegen or Taria to step through but when neither of them entered she called out. “Come in.”

She looked over her shoulder to see Jon stride through her doorway. He wore his leathers and the gorget Sansa had commissioned for him, his hair pulled back in its knot, and his eyes widened to see her in bed. He quickly stepped down from the threshold to cross over to her side.

“Mhaegen told me you were indisposed today. Are you ill?” he asked, his eyes shining with concern.

Sansa held out her hand to him and he grabbed hold of it, letting her pull him down to sit beside her on her bed. He still appeared uncomfortable in these chambers and held himself stiffly but Sansa smiled warmly at him.

“Not in the way you might think,” she said. Jon furrowed his brow in confusion. “It’s just my moonblood has arrived. It brings its own troubles, its aches and pains. But I’ll be better in a few days time.”

Jon’s face turned pink with his understanding, and he licked his lips as he turned away from her. “I see. Sorry. I shouldn’t be here then. I’ll leave you alone,” he rushed as he moved to stand up, but Sansa held him firm, not letting go of his hand.

“It’s all right, Jon. It’s not contagious,” she teased. It was rather amusing seeing her brother get so flustered over such a normal thing as a woman’s monthly blood, yet to know he was quite at home putting his mouth to the same place from whence it flowed.

“I’m aware of that, Sansa,” he shot back with a tight smile and nod of his head. “I’m not an idiot.”

“I wasn’t implying that you were.” She grinned at him, her battle-worn brother so out of his depth when it came to such things. She held his hand tighter, lacing their fingers together. “I’m happy you came to visit me, though.”

He breathed a sigh. “I was worried.” He looked around her chambers before meeting her eyes, still ill at ease. “Is there anything I can get for you while you convalesce?”

She pointed to the book in her lap, flipping it to its cover. “Something perhaps more engaging than _The Histories Of The Northern Territories_ by Archmaester Perestan. I think watching milk curdle would be more interesting.”

Jon grinned. “I don’t know if I can help you there. I’ve had to struggle through some dry reading myself.” He paused a moment, before smiling shyly at her. “But I’m glad to hear you’re alright.” He squeezed her hand. “This is good news. That … that it’s arrived.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, feeling the sting of rejection. “Is it?” Sansa imagined her brother was happy to discover he’d have a few nights to himself, even as she recognized her own selfishness in wanting all of his time. But it still hurt to see it. “Are you bored of me already?” she whined.

Jon’s smile flattened, his head rearing back. “I don’t understand. When did I say such a thing?”

Sansa made a disgusted noise in her throat as she looked away from him, suddenly irritated. “Never mind. I’m sure you’ll enjoy a full night’s rest this evening with me shut away in my room.”

“Sansa.” He tugged on her hand and made her look at him. “That isn’t what I meant,” he said earnestly, holding her gaze. “It’s good we have confirmation that Ramsay didn’t get you with child, is all I was saying.”

“Oh.” She turned away again, a flash in her mind of the floor of her old room, the blood seeping into the cracks between the stones, Theon trying to wipe it all up as she screamed in agony. “Yes, well, that was determined a while ago, Jon. It’s been a few moons. Didn’t you notice when I wasn’t able to sit my horse on our way to Deepwood Motte?”

Brow furrowed again, Jon shook his head. “It seems I did not. I’m sorry about that. You should have said something.”

“Right, because you would have responded well to the information, I’m sure.”

He made a frustrated sound before standing up. “I continue to say the wrong thing here, so I’ll shut up and let you get some rest then. There are some reports I need to go over with Ser Davos and Markas. And I said I’d talk to Ser Donnar about the training. But I’ll be back before supper to let you know what we’ve learned, if anything. Will that be alright with you?”

“Yes,” she said instantly, feeling a bit better that her brother wanted to keep her informed. “Thank you.” Jon was about to leave her chambers when she called him back. “Jon, come here for a moment.”

He came back to stand by her bed but she pulled him down to sit with her again, closer to her hip so that she could reach over to caress his cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Her hand curved to the back of his neck and she drew him to her, until he was close enough that she could put her mouth to his. Jon’s body went rigid before their lips met and he backed away quickly.

“Sansa, not here,” he ordered in a roughened voice.

“Why not?” She was stuck here all day and wanted the lingering taste of her brother’s mouth to warm her. “There’s no one else around. Mhaegan and Taria are in the kitchens.”

“Because I said so,” he argued, but he looked to the fireplace and back to the window with guilt in his face.

“You think Father is watching us?” she accused, the thought ridiculous. “As if his ghost would only keep an eye on his own chambers and wouldn’t have taken notice of what goes on in yours?”

“No, I don’t think that, Sansa,” he said, bristling at her sarcasm. “I just find it … disrespectful.” He leaned over to kiss her forehead and stood up again. “Now, are you sure I can’t bring you anything?”

Sansa sighed with her own frustration. “No,” she said dully. “Mhaegen is bringing me some soup later and hot towels for my belly. My handmaidens take good care of me.”

“Well, then … if you have need of me for anything else, have Hollis come find me,” he said.

“Actually, there is something,” she rushed before he could leave. Jon stopped on the landing with his hand on the doorknob and turned to her expectantly. “Could you send me Ghost?” she asked. The direwolf’s body was warm, too.

“Of course,” he agreed with a nod of his head. Then Jon opened the door and left.

Sansa sighed again and looked down at her book. In a fit of petulance, she threw it towards the fireplace. It didn’t quite make it and landed on the stones of the hearth, the cover slapping open in a wide grin as if to taunt her.

* * *

  
  


It wasn’t until two nights later that Sansa was finally able to visit her brother. Being secluded in her chambers as she suffered through her monthly courses did nothing to calm her mind, her thoughts continually meandering to what Jon might be doing at that moment as she worked on her sewing or attempted another reading of her books. She grew tired of her handmaidens’ faces, and once the flow between her legs eased enough, she requested some blood moss wrapped in linen so that she might take a walk through the Keep. She wore a dress of plum silk, the stitching in a red thread that drew leaves across the skirt. Sansa arrived at Jon’s door with a basket in her arms, an offering held up by the guards behind her, with Hollis in tow.

“Good evening, Lady Stark,” Kevven said with a bow of his head, before knocking on the door for her.

“Yes?” came a muffled answer.

“Lady Stark is here to see you, Your Grace.” Jon called for her to enter and Kevven opened the door for them. Sansa swept in, catching Jon in the corner of his chambers at his desk. He was down to his shirt and breeches, his hair loose, and Sansa smiled with a deep affection to see him so casual.

“Your Grace, I’ve come bearing a gift,” she declared as she stepped down into his room. She moved aside to let the men carry in his copper tub, Hollis and another boy trailing behind with pails of more hot water to fill it. Jon stood up instantly, his face wrapped in concern.

“I didn’t ask for a bath,” he stated.

“You didn’t, but I did,” she said, her smile softening. “I’m going to wash your hair for you. It will do you good to have a night of relaxation.”

Jon watched the men with his mouth open as they struggled to bring it to the center of the room, but his expression offered nothing of his thoughts. They moved to set it down, a bit of water splashing over the sides.

“No, not there. Over here,” Sansa directed, as she walked towards the hearth, setting her basket down on the furs where Ghost usually lay. “Closer to the fire.” She knew how much Jon relished the heat. “Hollis, after you fill the tub, run to my chambers to retrieve another linen towel from my closet.”

“Yes, Lady Stark.” The two boys were carefully emptying their pails as Jon stood by with his hands at his waist, overlooking the action with a quiet intensity.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” she said to the guards as they prepared to leave. “You can collect it in the morning.”

The men bowed to her and Jon before heading to the door, Kevven and Torren standing to either side of the entrance watching them all. When boys left with their pails, the door was closed behind them.

“What do you think you’re doing, Sansa?” Jon said immediately.

She shrugged, no longer taken aback by her brother’s tetchy moods. “As I said. I brought you your bath and I intend to wash your hair. I haven’t seen you for two nights, Jon. I thought you’d be happier to see me.”

Jon nodded curtly. “Of course I’m happy to see you. But I can call for my own bath. It …” he sighed. “We’ve spoken about this. How is this supposed to look?”

“The same way it did last time I washed your hair? Or have you forgotten? I don’t recall anyone raising any eyebrows then.” She shook her head at him, his paranoia misplaced. “Do you think Hollis is a spy now?”

“It’s not Hollis I’m worried about,” he murmured, walking towards her to give her a kiss on the cheek. Sansa turned her head and captured his mouth, eager for the warmth and comfort of his body as she crossed her arms at the small of his back. She had missed him. Jon sighed into her again, but brought her closer to him as their kiss deepened, his tongue quick to lap against hers.

There was a rap at the door and the two of them split apart fast.

Hollis walked in with the linens Sansa requested. “I’ve brought your things, m’lady. Will you be needin’ me to bring ye anythin’ else?”

“No, Hollis, but the king could use your help. Why don’t you hold this up and give His Grace some privacy while I wait over here,” she suggested, shaking out one of the linen cloths while ignoring the way Jon slid his eyes towards her.

“Yes, m’lady,” the boy said, his eagerness to serve ever present. Hollis had already informed her that Jon had been on his own the past few nights when she’d inquired, that her brother hadn’t asked for anything at all, keeping to his chambers or the Library tower after supper.

The boy stood dutifully before the tub, holding open the linen as a shield with his arms stretched as wide as he was able, while Jon pulled off his boots, glaring at Sansa from over the makeshift screen and the boy’s head. Sansa smirked back at him as she waltzed to the other side of his bed and sat down, swiveling her back to them finally as she listened to Jon undress and climb into the water.

“Is His Grace’s modesty preserved yet?” she called after a few minutes.

“Yes, it is,” her brother answered gruffly.

Sansa came back around the bed towards them, heading for her basket with her oils and soaps. “Thank you, Hollis, you can go now.”

Hollis stared up at her sheepishly, then glanced towards Jon who had leaned back against the tub and closed his eyes, his arms already hanging off the sides. The boy had draped the linen across the width of the bath, ostensibly covering Jon’s lap, but already the steam from the water had turned the cloth diaphanous. “Yes, Lady Stark. Should I come back later, Your Grace?”

“I’m fine, Hollis,” Jon rumbled from deep in his chest. “Go to bed.”

The boy left through the bedchamber door, instead of the servant’s exit, but Sansa turned to Jon as soon as he was gone. “Feel better now?”

Jon answered by dragging down the cloth into the water and then splashing a wave towards her with the flat of his palm.

“Oh! You wretch! How dare you!” she exclaimed in mock outrage as drops of the water hit her, her hands up to shield her face from another spray while she grinned in delight. “I’m still in a delicate state, remember?”

“There’s nothing delicate about you, Sansa,” Jon said, watching her through the slits of his eyelids. “You think yourself very clever, don’t you?” he commented lazily, still reclining against the edge of the tub with his arms crossed at the wrists atop his head. “But you need to be mindful of the way people watch us, always.”

“You think I’m not used to people watching every move I make wherever I go?” she questioned with a sharp note. “I’ve been mindful of other people since I arrived in King’s Landing as a child.”

“And now you’re back here,” he said, “Where it’s easy to get comfortable, to feel insulated. We can’t afford any missteps.”

“Oh, gods, and here I was missing your sparkling personality,” she quipped. “Are you going to moan about it all night? The bath was meant to be relaxing.”

“It is. Thank you, Sansa.” Jon spread his arms to either side of the tub’s rim as Sansa came to kneel next to him. “Just be careful.”

She hung her face over his, running a finger through his beard. “I am.” Then she leaned down to kiss him. Jon took hold of a lock of her hair and curled it into his fingers, dragging her closer as his mouth opened wider for her tongue. She put her hands around his head, holding him to her, wishing she could reach all of her brother, right down inside him. She had left her gloves in her room, leaving her hands bare. Sansa reached into the warm water to feel him, to hold him in her grip.

“Sansa,” Jon hissed, pulling away from her. “I thought you wanted to wash my hair. Remember my men are outside.”

“So I’ll send them to either end of the hallway,” she said, searching his eyes. She wanted him. Sansa cursed her moonblood again, wanting her brother’s mouth on her body, between her legs, to glory in the sensations that would flood her, that left her cunt cavernous. She imagined again what it might feel like to sit astride Jon’s lap, to have him fill this gaping chasm inside her with the thing that had once hurt her most, while creating a new experience to bind them ever closer.

“Let’s just stick to the plan,” he said calmly as he tapped her nose with a finger.

“Fine,” she replied, her mouth still close to his. “We’ll bathe you first.” She kissed him again, a quick smack against his lips, before straightening and standing up to reach for her basket. She brought it over to the head of the tub then went back to collect his jug and basin. “Let me get your hair wet first.”

Jon closed his eyes and lay back against the tub’s edge again, his hair dripping over the side as she poured warm water over it. He stayed quiet as she worked, his breathing steady, watching her from time to time in his pinched gaze with eyes almost black. She recalled the first time she did this – how Jon had been so scandalized, but then how shocking it had been for her to see the damage wreaked upon his torso. It felt like ages ago with all that had happened between them, and yet to realize it had been just over a fortnight provided a certain comfort. Their relationship had only deepened in that time and would continue to do so.

“You’re quiet tonight,” she finally said. She had moved behind him to scrub her fingers into his soapy locks, rubbing them in circles to massage his scalp.

“Mmm,” he grunted, not pressed to speak.

“I suppose there’s not much progress to report. But nothing of importance happened in the yard as I languished in my bed? No brawls amongst the lords? No calamities in the kitchens?”

“No. The work continues. Everyone goes about their business. Sorry to disappoint you.”

Soap bubbles trailed down the back of her hands as she scratched across his head, and Sansa relished the way Jon relaxed into her touch, his body easing against her. She leaned her head in to kiss his neck, her fingers sliding over his shoulders and down his chest. A far off memory intruded into her thoughts, of scrubbing Arya’s hair the same way, her little sister complaining about the day’s many injustices the entire time.

“Do you remember that time you and Robb tried to scare us down in the crypts?” she asked, the scene suddenly vivid in her mind. “He coaxed us down there to show us where our tombs waited and then you jumped out from behind one of the statues, coated in flour and pretending to be a ghost? It was our first time down there and I screamed so loud. But Arya just yelled at you and Robb both for scaring Bran. She thought I was ridiculous.” Arya couldn’t have been more than eight or nine, Sansa recalled, seeing her sister’s screwed up face as she looked her over, thoroughly unimpressed with Sansa’s reaction. Rickon hadn’t even been born yet, and now he lay there with Father.

“Mmm. I remember,” Jon said after a beat. He let her rub her hands across his scars then up the back of his head, as her fingers swept his sudsy hair into a pony's tail, but made no further comment.

“And that’s it?” she prompted, teasingly. “You have no opinion?”

“I’m to have an opinion?” he muttered darkly, his eyes closed. Jon breathed another long sigh. “My opinion is that you need to make a choice, Sansa.”

“A choice about what?” She frowned into his shoulder as she rinsed her hands in the bathwater in front of him.

“You need to decide whether you want to reminisce over stories of us as children … or lay your hands on my body. You don’t get to do both. Certainly not at the same time.”

Sansa reared her head back to take in her brother’s countenance. He hadn’t moved, still basking in the warmth of his bath. Sansa reached down into the water again, soaking her sleeve. She stroked his cock with a determined grip, thrilled to feel it jerk in her hand.

“I think I would rather touch you then.” Sansa leaned in closer to kiss the side of his mouth, shifting his face towards hers after a moment so he would kiss her back. He opened his mouth to her slowly, letting her do what she wanted, letting her touch him as she wanted, and Sansa grew hungry. She pushed down on the tops of his shoulders suddenly, dunking him under the water, and swept her fingers through his hair again, rinsing the tendrils clean. Jon stayed under for longer than she expected, his face serene. He snapped his eyes open while still underwater and Sansa felt a knot tighten in her belly to see it, before he sat up with a loud splash, his breaths harsh as he sputtered through the rivulets of water running down his face.

They didn’t speak for the rest of his bath, Jon peaceful as she scrunched the water from his dripping curls. When she bid him to stand, she held out her hand to him and Jon took it, standing on the stones as she dried his hair, his body, as she rubbed his legs, his back, kissed along the furrow of his spine, the tops of his arse, squeezed her fingers into the flesh of his hips while she pulled herself up. Jon let her do whatever she wanted.

“Move to the bed,” she whispered to him, her hands upon his waist. “Let me taste you.”

“I thought you were still … that you were indisposed,” Jon murmured back, hesitant.

“Yes, but you’re not.”

Jon turned around to face her, his eyes boring into hers. His pretty mouth twisted into a dark smile, one that unsettled her. “Would it matter if I was?”

“Of course it would,” she said, momentarily disturbed by his odd mood. “Lay on the bed,” she directed, not letting it deter her. When he didn’t move, she stood closer to him, until their bodies almost touched, and then cupped him between his legs, her mouth hovering over his. “I want to take care of you.”

“And how are you going to do that, Sansa?”

Sansa put her hands to his hips again, pushing him backwards with her steps. “I’m going to kiss you. Every inch of you. Until you quiver under my touch. And when I put my mouth on you, you will never know such pleasure.” 

That she could say such things to Jon, a confidence rolling through her like storm clouds, spooled her desire so tightly she felt as if the thread to her cunt might snap from the tension. She smiled sweetly, leaning in to kiss him as they reached the bed. He tumbled back upon it with her landing on top of him, and Sansa wondered again what her brother might feel like inside of her as she writhed over his body, her tongue already sliding along his jawline, eager to lick the expanse of skin exposed underneath her. Madness loomed in her loins, a febrile need that left Sansa wanting her brother more than she could ever recall wanting anything in her entire life. But moonblood was potent, she’d heard, and carried its own magical properties, and so she harnessed that desire rushing through her, wielded it over Jon as she took pleasure in his flesh. An image filled her mind, of coating her brother in her blood, painting his mouth with it, his throat, and she moaned fitfully into his skin, biting down on a nipple to taste his blood, too.

“Sansa, calm down,” he warned.

“Put your hands over your head,” she demanded breathlessly. “Slide up, closer to the wall.”

“What do you want? I told you that you don’t need to take care of me.”

“You say that, but you like it,” she said, knowing it in her bones. “You like what I do to you. When you spill your seed in my mouth. When you take it from me, swallow it for yourself.”

“Shut up,” he sneered. “Don’t speak that way.”

“What way? As though I’m my own person? I’ll say whatever I want.”

“You go too far, Sansa.”

“Put your hands over your head,” she repeated, pushing her body off of him so he could move where she directed. “Let me see you.”

Jon studied her face for a moment, his eyes searching hers, but he eventually slid his body to where she asked, let her lay on him again as he crossed his arms over his head. To see that, see her brother naked under her, while she lay over him fully dressed – even her boots were still on – his body on offer to her, was almost more than Sansa could bear. It thundered through her now, this power, and she pressed her own hands over his wrists, keeping him there, while she dropped her head and took his mouth, took everything he would give her.

“My men do expect you to leave at some point,” Jon said when she pulled away, his breathing barely affected. “Don’t get too comfortable.”

“I think you’re the one who shouldn’t get too comfortable,” Sansa goaded, before pinching both of his nipples as tightly as she could, knowing that Jon preferred it that way. He hissed through his teeth but stayed lying supine for her, his arms still above him, and Sansa sat up on her knees and pulled, Jon arching his body towards hers with another hiss of pain. That she was practiced in the things that aroused her brother gave her a deep satisfaction, that here in his bed Jon was forced to see her as an equal. She let go of a nipple and curled her palm around his cock; it was throbbing for her by this point, a steady beat in her grip and as solid as iron.

“I’m going to make you come,” she declared, the strength in her pulsing behind her eyes, pounding her cunt. “I’m going to make you come harder than you’ve ever done before.”

“You think so?” he challenged, his gaze never leaving her face.

“Yes.” She moved off of him and sat on her side, pulling her legs up so she could untie the laces of her boots. “I want you to get up on your knees first.”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “On my knees now? How many times are you going to move me around?”

“As many times as is necessary,” she said with a smirk, slipping off her boot quickly. She patted the patch of bed next to her. “Over here.”

Jon rose up on his knees and sidled over to where she patted while she kicked off her other boot. She sat up with him, dragging up the skirt of her dress so she could kneel on the bed in front of him. Jon wrapped an arm around her back, his hand on her bottom and pressing her body to his as he tipped his head to kiss her. Sansa had her hands on him instantly, her mouth locked to his and her breaths quickening with her need, to see Jon’s pleasure by her hand. Her fingers wrapped into his wet hair and pulled tight, dragging his head back.

“On all fours,” she breathed. Just as Jon had asked of her earlier that week. Jon’s eyes narrowed with distrust as he leaned away from her.

“What are you planning?”

“I did it for you,” she reminded him. “And you were quite invasive.”

“So you did. But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“Jon,” she huffed. “Please. I just … I want to kiss you along your back. Nothing more.”

He glanced down to the covers and then back at her, still not quite convinced, but he did as she requested and dropped his hands to the bed, swinging another look at her over his shoulder. Jon’s back was muscular and defined, his skin like marble, and Sansa hiked up her skirt again as she moved behind him, molding her body to his as she bent over that hard flesh, kissing the spot below his neck in the center between his shoulders. She opened her mouth, her breaths leaving a wet film as she dragged her tongue up the back of his neck to taste it, his skin flavored with lemons and cloves.

“Sansa,” Jon hissed again, bucking up against her as she wrapped her hand around the hardened length of him, her face in his hair. The clean scent of Jon rose in her nose, and Sansa felt power in this, too, to have cleansed her brother as he had done for her.

“You smell good,” she whispered, leaving a slick trail down his back with her kisses. She put her face right into the dip of his lower back, just before the swell of his arse, and tongued him there while she used both of her hands to work her brother’s erection.

“Sansa, we need to stop for a moment,” Jon said, his voice deep but controlled. “I need to lock the door.”

Sansa sat up quickly. “I’ll do it. Don’t move from here.”

She rushed her way to both doors to turn the key in their locks. At her brother’s chamber door, she pressed her ear to the wood and listened for the guards on the other side as she twisted the key, hearing the spring fall into place. It sounded quite loud and she grimaced, hoping the men didn’t notice. It was silent on the other side of the door. 

Sansa returned to the bed, pleased to see Jon was still positioned as she had fashioned him. She draped herself over his back again, sliding her arms under his and curling her hands back to clasp the tops of his shoulders, locking herself to him. Sansa pushed her pelvis to Jon’s backside, their bodies perfectly wedged together, and a shiver ran through her at the prospect of doing this to a man. Ramsay had made her hold herself this way while he took her from behind, as forcefully as he’d done with her on her back, ignoring her screams and protests, at the way her body had slammed forward with every thrust. But to have that control for herself – to be like a man and take what she wanted – well, that carried its own enticement. Sansa moved her hips back and thrust into him again, her fingers leaving marks in his shoulders as she held him in place. Watching her brother’s head bounce with the motion felt strangely satisfying, and she kissed his back sweetly to remind her who was under her.

“I think you may be missing a few parts,” Jon muttered dryly, “If you’re intending for that to work.”

“Am I?” she answered with a grin, her hand back on his cock. “I just wondered what it feels like. To take a woman this way?”

It was quiet for a beat. Then Jon turned his head to look over his shoulder at her. “Are you expecting me to answer that?”

“What? You’re telling me you don’t know?”

Jon turned back to face the wall in front of him with a shake of his head. “I don’t know what kind of man you think I am, Sansa.”

“Is that not a proper way to make love?” she asked, feeling suddenly awkward. She had only her brother to guide her on what was normal and expected, after all.

Jon finally sat up, his sigh long and gusty. “I prefer to see her face when I’m with someone,” he said tiredly, appearing done with her antics. He leaned back against her as he sat on his haunches.

“And how do you manage that when your face is between her legs?” she teased.

Jon craned his head to look at her again, his arm reaching behind him to hold the back of her head. “I can hear her, though,” he said with a shy smile. “I can tell what she likes. Her little noises of pleasure,” he grinned, his eyes warm with affection as he tilted his head back to receive her mouth. Sansa leaned in to kiss him, holding the sides of his face, the rush of her desire winding her up again. She dropped her hand to his cock once more and started to stroke him, before a thought made her pull back.

“I forgot. I brought something for this,” she said mysteriously. Jon’s expression dropped to concern, but he waited silently as Sansa moved off the bed and ran on stockinged feet to the hearth where her wicker basket sat. She pulled the jar of emollient from its bottom and brought it back to the bed.

“What’s that?” Jon asked suspiciously.

“It’s for your skin. The winter winds make it harsh and dry. I thought a cream would be helpful.” She opened the jar and sat it on the bed, daubing her fingers into the slick pudding and slathering the dollop onto her brother’s scars.

“Why are you putting it there?” he questioned, watching her spread it over his belly, rub it across the gnarled tissue.

“To soften it. They haven’t faded much, have they? It’s not normal, how vibrant they still look.”

Sansa put more of the emollient on her fingers and rubbed it into her brother’s shoulders, stroked up his neck, across his chest. Then she took a coin sized gob and rubbed it into her own hands, making them slick, before reaching for his member once again. The oily sheen provided a smooth glide for her hand as she stroked him, and Sansa pressed her breasts into his back and clutched Jon tightly, her arm draped across his collarbone, from shoulder to shoulder as she tugged on him with a quickened motion.

“Do you like that?” Jon asked in a gruff voice, but his tone prosaic. “Doing that to me?”

“Very much,” she whispered into his neck.

“Does it … does it make you feel strong?” He canted his hips forward as her strokes sped up, a groan in his throat.

“Unimaginably so,” she hissed, pushing a thumb into the spongey softness at the end of him and rubbing the wetness that had collected there all around its edge. She brought the thumb up to her mouth as Jon watched her with dark eyes, and sucked on the end of it, before putting her hand back on him. His gaze stayed fixed to her face and so Sansa leaned over to kiss him again, her tongue lurching into his mouth to fill him, to feel him, her hand moving much faster as she heard a hitch in her brother’s breathing.

“I want you in my mouth,” she told him, the thunder in her head driving her now, a storm in her mind. “Because I like it. Touching you, caressing you, kissing you. Sucking you. Only you.”

Her brother’s eyes were as black as night as he listened to her, letting her pump him harder, his legs spread for her as she fisted him, leaning back farther against her so she could hold him in her arms. She cradled his jaw as they mouthed each other, tongues entwined, and Sansa swallowed his groans, Jon’s breaths finally coming faster. When she pulled her face away, his lips were swollen and plump, his mouth open while he still watched her, and Sansa brought up her fingers from the other side of his cheek and slid them inside, saw his eyebrows rise for a brief second before he committed to taking them, sucking on the two she delved in and out of him, her other hand still furiously trying to bring him off. She stuck a third finger in his mouth and watched it widen, then put a fourth in until it became obscene, the way his lips stretched around her hand as she put all of her fingers in him, her thumb stamped to a cheek to hold him. The desire in Jon’s eyes flared brightly, his hips moving to thrust into her fist, a moan behind her fingers as she pressed on his tongue. He scrunched up his face and made a longer moan, as he struggled to speak. Sansa pulled her fingers free, and Jon was breathless. “Sansa, I’m almost –” he groaned, but she had let go of him already, dropping her body so her face was at his hip.

“Wait for me,” she gasped, feeling as though lightning coursed through her. Sansa put her mouth around her brother’s nob, her hand still on its stem as she coaxed him on, her tongue working the underside of him. Jon never touched her when she did this to him, never held the back of her head, or pinned her in place, but simply waited for her to do what she liked. She grabbed his testicles and squeezed them in her grip, took what she could of him.

“Shit,” he hissed, just as she felt his seed land on her tongue, begin to fill her mouth.

When she straightened to her knees, leaned over to feed it to him, Jon grabbed her by her waist and held her tight, running his hands up her back as their bodies were flush against each other. She wanted him so desperately, the throb in her cunt almost forgotten but now ringing through her as loudly as the bells tolling in the Great Sept of the capital. Sansa moaned into his mouth as they swirled his issue with their tongues, as they drank it together.

“Jon,” she whined as he pulled away, needing more of him.

“Lay back,” he whispered roughly, his arm cradling her as he leaned her back towards the bed. Jon reached down to pluck up a fistful of her skirt and dragged it upwards, over her thighs.

“Jon, what are you doing?” She crossed her wrists behind his neck and let him slide his hand under the silk of her dress, under her smallclothes. She closed her eyes and sucked in a hard breath as she felt his fingers slip past the cloth soaked with her blood and dip into her cunt, felt him fill her, several of his fingers pumping into her with skillful manipulation.

“Ahhhh,” she whined again, spreading her legs, wanting to fuck him, wishing it was his cock inside of her. Jon licked up the side of her face as his fingers moved faster, nibbled on her neck, sucked on her chin, before putting his mouth back on hers.

“Do you want me?” he growled.

“ _Yessssss_ ,” she groaned, right before she came on his hand. She opened her mouth so her moan could travel freely but Jon was on her, silencing her with a kiss so deep she could feel it in her womb, in the pulp of her cunt, until stars filled her eyes.

When she was finally done, Jon carefully removed his hand from under her dress, making sure not to stain it. She saw only a glimpse of his bloodied fingers before he turned his back to her, rising off the bed and traipsing quietly on the pads of his feet to where the tub sat. Jon squatted before it and dropped his hands in the water; she could hear him washing them. Sansa straightened herself and her dress then sat on the edge of the bed, waiting. Instead of returning to her, Jon picked up his clothes and began to dress.

“Are you going back to your reading?” she asked, trying not to sound disappointed.

“I still have these three over here to get through,” he said. “I’ve not found much so far. How about you?” He glanced to her as he laced up his breeches, before reaching over to his shirt. Sansa sighed. She’d forgotten it was early still.

“Nothing,” she reported, her tone dulled. “I don’t even know what I’m looking for.”

“Well, you’ll know it when you see it, believe me,” he said sagely. Jon slipped his boots back on and went to his desk, shuffling some papers around with his back to her.

“Should I leave you now?”

He turned, a look of surprise on his face. “Oh. Was there something else? You’re done with my hair, right?”

“I thought we could visit,” she said softly, not quite able to remove the hurt from her voice.

His eyes searched her face for a moment, but then Jon smiled encouragingly. “Why don’t we visit tomorrow, Sansa? I’ve a lot to get through, and hopefully you’re feeling well enough to join us at the council tomorrow, so we can discuss some matters that need immediate attention. The mining reports are not looking optimistic.”

“Yes, of course,” she agreed. “I’ll let you get to your research then.” She leaned over to collect her boots, widening the mouth of one to slip her foot inside.

“Wait a moment. Let me help.” Jon came over to kneel down in front of her and captured her foot in his hand. He slipped on her boot and began to tie the laces, looking up at her with a grin. “Now the tables have turned, my lady.”

“What do you mean?” She frowned at his cavalier attitude. Why wasn’t he as affected as she felt?

“Only that I get to tend to your boots for once.” He finished with her other boot and then stood up, holding out a hand to help her up from where she sat. Sansa rose and attempted to neaten her hair, seeing the frayed strands on either side of her face.

“Let me,” Jon said. His breath tickled her cheeks as he licked a few fingers and slicked back the hair on the top of her head. Jon combed a few more fingers down the length of her tresses and stood back to appraise his handiwork. “Much better.” He smiled at her again, but then it faltered, his brows worrying to a notch in his forehead. “Are you alright, Sansa?”

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. My body is just a bit … overwhelmed, I guess.”

Jon studied her closely, before reaching over to kiss her. She held him, arms quick to wrap around his back, relishing the attention he gave her as her mouth imparted all that she felt. He pulled back suddenly.

“That’s enough,” he said, not unkindly. “You should get some sleep. We need you back at work. I’ve been avoiding Baelish for the last two days. He might begin to think I don’t like him.”

She laughed in spite of her mood. “Right. Not much can get past Littlefinger. He might be on to you.” Sansa leaned over to peck him on the lips once more before she left. “Can I … ?” She had hoped to come back later, after everyone had gone to sleep, but realized that Jon was done with her for the evening.

“Can you, what, Sansa?”

“Can I show you the pups tomorrow?” she asked instead. “I’ve yet to introduce you to them, and I’ve not been to see them since I’ve been unwell.”

“Of course,” he said, smiling at her with such tenderness it made Sansa’s heart ache. “I’d be delighted.” She beamed back at him.

“Good night, brother.”

“Good night, little sister.”

She collected all of the items from her basket and tucked it over her arm, letting Jon walk her to his door. When he opened it, Kevven stood facing them preparing to knock, Ghost waiting behind him.

“Oh, Your Grace. Your direwolf has come to be let in.”

“What excellent timing,” Sansa commented on the threshold, something inside her wanting to stay, but she brushed it aside. “I suppose Ghost has made his choice for the evening,” she said with a look back at Jon. “Now that I’m better, he prefers to stay with his master.” She smiled to the direwolf as he loped into Jon’s bedchambers. “Thank him for me, won’t you?” she said to Jon.

“Torren, why don’t you escort the Lady Sansa back to her chambers?”

“No, I’m fine, Jon,” she insisted. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.” She looked to the guards, marveling at their ignorance, at how they had no idea what she’d just done to their king, and he to her. She took what satisfaction she could from it. “Good night, gentlemen.”

The guards bowed to her and bid her goodnight. Jon hung at the door watching her.

“Goodnight, Sansa,” he said again, a sad smile on his face as she turned to walk away.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm slowly going insane.
> 
> I still fret about those of you I haven't heard from in a bit. **ba_al** , I hope you are okay! These are very scary times. I don't even know why I'm writing, but its something for my mind to take hold of for brief respites, at least. Here is some Good Friday Special Edition Incest for those of you on your own.
> 
> Some of the dialogue comes courtesy of Bryan Cogman, from 7x02, "Stormborn".

**.xiv**

“Your Grace. A raven has arrived for you.”

Wolkan had found Jon in his office chamber. His knuckles were pressed at either end of the map table as he scoured the topography for some kind of marker, anything to indicate there were areas they could still mine for dragonglass. He’d been studying it for days. Jon straightened and turned to the maester, his hand ready to receive it, but Wolkan’s expression stopped him.

“What? Who is it?”

“It’s … the seal. It’s Targaryen.”

Jon snatched the scroll from Wolkan to take a closer look. He snapped the dragon seal in half and quickly unrolled it flat. He read through it, then read it again, stunned by the signature.

“This just came?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I brought it right to you.”

Jon stared at the last line to make sure he was reading it correctly, recalling instantly the night it had been said to him. Tyrion had certainly come far for a man who’d been sentenced to death. But then Jon could say the same for himself. It was an odd thing, seeing a Lannister name signed to an appeal rather than a demand, and one that gave him a sudden lift of hope. Sansa immediately came to his thoughts as he anticipated her reaction to the invitation. She would be suspicious, of course. But then it occurred to Jon that Tyrion was someone Sansa knew intimately. After all, they’d once been man and wife. He tended to forget that. Perhaps she would see it as an opening. This summons needed to be a good thing, a harbinger for their survival.

“Maester Wolkan, where is my sister now?”

“I believe she is in the kitchens talking with the cook, Your Grace.”

“Find her and Ser Davos for me, please. Tell them to meet me on the landing over the training yard.”

“At once, Your Grace.”

Jon read the message again.

~

_Queen Daenerys Targaryen, First of Her Name, invites you to Dragonstone. My queen commands the combined forces of Dorne and the Reach, an Ironborn fleet, legions of Unsullied, a Dothraki horde and three dragons. The Seven Kingdoms will bleed as long as Cersei sits on the Iron Throne. Join us. Together we can end her tyranny. I appeal to you, one bastard to another — for all dwarves are bastards in their fathers’ eyes._

_Tyrion Lannister, Hand of the Queen_

_~_

It was the three dragons which kept drawing his focus. That dragons were alive in the world seemed an amazing, fantastical thing, but Jon knew firsthand that magic existed, had real consequences for countless lives. And he considered what it must feel like, to command a dragon, a beast that breathed streaming gusts of fire. This Daenerys Targaryen sounded like quite a woman if she could control not one, but three of them. If he had an opportunity for an alliance, the North could have a fighting chance to beat the dead once and for all, for certainly fire-breathing dragons were a huge advantage when it came to killing wights. They could wipe out a horde with very little effort with beasts that had grown large enough.

But the armies behind her – they were another matter. That this supposed queen had gained the backing of Lady Olenna and the Dornish in Westeros was impressive enough, but the Unsullied and Dothraki were a foreign entity with fearsome reputations. Sansa wouldn’t trust it. She’d let on enough times now that she didn’t want Jon to leave Winterfell. What his sister couldn’t fathom, however, was that those dragons were everything, the answer to all of their problems. If he wanted her to accept this, he’d have to let her convince herself first that it was a good plan. Sansa advising him to go, to meet with Tyrion and this queen, would be his best chance to avoid any bitter arguments. While she appeared to be doing much better, Jon still worried about her mind. She’d seemed despondent to leave him only two nights ago, after being so eager to claim his body for her needs.

It confused him much of the time, as Jon stumbled along trying to understand just what she gained from him. If it was merely pleasure she sought, he could give her that, he’d made peace with it, but there seemed an insistence on reciprocation which had little to do with his wants. His sister’s need to see his desire under the guise of giving him pleasure did not seem calculated but the end result was the same regardless. It wore on him, being party to it. Jon thought of the various moments in his life when he’d felt powerless, none more profound than his death. As much as he’d promised to help Sansa take back their home and save their brother out of duty and loyalty, truthfully, he had needed that battle, had needed to fight and cut men apart before he could even return to the living as a man at all. Perhaps it was not so strange a thought to imagine that women would want that, too; that his sister’s need to exercise some control over him was perhaps what she found most desirable, hoping to manifest some control over the rest of her life. Ygritte had been a free woman, and her desire had been a bold, insatiable thing, never once shy about what she wanted from him. Jon could never picture his sister among the Freefolk, yet she deserved her freedom as well. He saw the shackles and chains she wrapped around her body every day and began to appreciate their irony. Still, to see his sister burgeoning into her sexual liberty was never going to be easy for him.

And there were other moments that worried him. Jon retrieved his cloak from his room, strapping it across his chest before heading down through the corridors, and as he descended the stairs taking him outside he thought of the curious incident he’d witnessed the day before, when Sansa had brought him to the kitchens to see her pups.

She’d been excited to have him there, as were the servants he’d been quickly surrounded by, all of them eager to converse with their king. Sansa was full of good cheer as she pointed the pups out to him by name, their bodies piled on top of each other as they slept, but when the boy who took care of them tried to put one little bundle in her hand, she’d instantly handed it off to Jon. He’d held the animal close to his chest, letting it nuzzle him, and laughed when it began to suckle on the fur of his collar as though nursing from its mother. He held it aloft, a brownish black one with a white patch in the center of its head, and the scene made him recall the first time he’d ever picked up Ghost.

“They’re very sweet,” he’d said, handing the pup back to her. “Here, it wants its mother.” Sansa had looked uneasy as she held it to her chest. The hound mewled and barked, its body wriggling against her in a spastic fit as it tried to worm its way closer to her, when suddenly Sansa had screamed, dropping the pup to the ground. It yelped in distress, having just missed the basket where the rest of the litter slept. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at them, Sansa looking decidedly ashen with her eyes too large in her face. Jon had taken her by the hand to lead her out, smiling to the servants and children to put them at ease, but his sister’s frozen expression concerning him. Once he’d brought her outside, she’d come back to herself, peeved and embarrassed by her behaviour.

Then last night, she hadn’t come to him. Jon felt conflicted. Part of him continued to hope she was getting over her obsession with him and their nightly assignations, that she’d eventually wind herself down and lose interest. It was obvious she was still troubled, however, and Jon’s first inclination was to go to her chambers to check on her. In the end, he’d left her alone, telling himself that it was more than likely her blood had simply not finished its course. Jon had plenty else to keep him occupied as he looked for some way forward for all of them.

The slip of paper in his hand was a sign, he could feel it.

When he arrived at the meeting place, Davos and Sansa were already waiting, watching the children practice archery with Ser Donnar. Sansa smiled knowingly at him, an earthy radiance in her face as she watched him stride towards them, the intensity in her eyes visible to him from a distance. It unnerved him for a moment, and he wondered if she’d heard something already, if Wolkan had given her the news.

“This must be serious,” Sansa remarked as he walked up to greet them. “You look every inch a king this morning, Jon. All you need is your crown.”

Jon reached over to kiss her cheek, stone faced at her comment. “Hardly. I’m just cold.” He nodded to Davos and then held out his hand, the scroll revealed in the center of his glove. “Here, we’ve received another invitation. You’ll both want to read this.”

Sansa grabbed for it instantly, unfurling the paper and reading through it. She snapped her eyes to Jon. _“Tyrion_ is Hand to Daenerys Stormborn?”

“It appears so,” Jon answered, looking to Davos. “I’ve been asked to join them in an alliance. Queen Daenerys has the support of the Reach, the Dornish, and at least half of the Ironborn fleet. Tyrion Lannister wants me to come to Dragonstone and meet with her.”

“You think it’s really Tyrion?” Sansa asked with wide eyes. “It could be someone trying to lure you into a trap.” Jon had to smile in spite of his tickling irritation as he gazed out over the courtyard. There were at least some things he could predict about his sister.

“Read the last bit,” he replied.

“ _All dwarves are bastards in their father’s eyes_ ,” she read. “What does that mean?”

“It’s something he said to me the first night we met.” Jon turned to regard her. “You know him better than any of us. What d’ _you_ think?”

He caught the pleased look on her face, Sansa almost blushing as both he and Davos waited for her counsel. She glanced over the parchment again. “Tyrion is not like the other Lannisters,” she imparted with some seriousness. “He was always kind to me, but it’s too great a risk.” She went back to the scroll. _“The Seven Kingdoms will bleed as long as Cersei sits on the Iron Throne. Join us. Together we can end her tyranny,”_ she finished reciting. It was not what Jon had been hoping to hear from her but he tried not to be disappointed. They’d only just processed the news. It was then that Davos finally took the scroll from Sansa and read through it himself.

“Sounds like a charmer,” he commented sarcastically as his eyes darted over the message. Jon had noticed that Davos had a tendency to mouth the words as he read from time to time and imagined it was still a new skill for the son of a crabber. “Of course, the casual mention of a Dothraki horde, a legion of Unsullied, and three dragons, a bit less charming.” A dawning thought flashed over Davos’s face.

“What?” Jon asked immediately. He could count on Davos to make the connection, at least.

“Fire kills wights, you told me. What breathes fire?”

 _Thank you, Ser Davos_. Jon took a breath and looked out at the ground below them again, only mildly amused that they didn’t think he possessed the intelligence to have figured that out for himself, as if this hadn’t been the only thing consuming his mind since awaking from a corpse. _Yes, dragons breathe fire, good call._

“You’re not suggesting Jon meet with her?” Sansa balked immediately, her expression declaring the notion outlandish.

“No, too dangerous,” Davos replied. And there, Jon’s hope withered.

“But?” He sensed more.

“But if the army of the dead makes it past the Wall, do we have enough men to fight?”

 _NO! We don’t have enough of anything!_ Jon tried to drown out the shouting in his head with a clearing of his throat, stilling himself as the desperation within him surged.

“What makes her a queen, anyway?” Sansa noted caustically, and Jon slid a glance to her, wondering at the tone. “Just because of a birthright? Bit presumptuous of her, isn’t it? She hasn’t won the throne yet.”

“Oh, she’s a queen alright,” Davos answered. “She conquered Mereen and its nearby cities in Essos. She’s as much loved as she’s feared over there, having liberated all of their slaves. I’ve still ties to the ship captains who visit those ports regularly.” He nodded his head with humility. “And perhaps a smuggler or two. She’s a regular topic of conversation with that lot.”

“But you don’t trust her.” Jon regarded his sister. “Why?”

“Why? Is that a serious question?” Sansa looked back at Jon with disbelief. “She’s a Targaryen.”

“And?”

“Perhaps you need to take a stroll through the family crypts to refresh your memory, if you feel the need to ask.” She shook her head at him. “Our father fought in the rebellion to save the North from a Targaryen’s madness. Surely, I don’t need to give the likes of you a history lesson, Jon.”

Jon clamped his jaw tightly, pinching at his eyes as he sucked in a troubled breath. He exhaled slowly and plastered on a tight smile.

“Aye, you don’t. But do you really believe Tyrion would align himself with a mad tyrant? After all you’ve told me about Joffrey? That doesn’t sound much like him. He’s a smart man.”

“Yes, Tyrion is brilliant, but he also loathes his sister, who wants him dead. This Daenerys may be his best chance to see Cersei removed from the Throne.”

“So,” he began, taking the scroll back from Sansa. “My advisors think it foolhardy to accept this invitation, then?”

“You’ve got two queens summoning you to come before them,” Davos said. “One is pretty clearly a threat to your life, the other … I don’t know, Jon, her request for an alliance does sound suspect. It doesn’t mention bending the knee, but a woman like that didn’t get her forces with handshakes and promises. She wants you to fight with her so she can take the Throne, but what is she willing to offer you in return?”

“Well, we don’t know that yet, do we? We don’t know much about her at all,” Jon added.

“We know enough,” Sansa answered with a sharp glance at him. Her eyes said everything. “Accepting either one would be idiotic.”

Jon couldn’t tamp down the flash of anger across his face that time, his jaw tightening again as a need to push back flared in his chest. The battle of wills between the two of them was getting tiresome. He didn’t have time for arguments about the past.

“Thank you for your counsel, Sansa. I will think on all you’ve said.” His smile was forced as he turned to leave.

“Where are you going? I thought we would go down to the Great Hall together.”

“I’ve some matters to attend to,” he said distractedly, eager to be with his own thoughts. “You’ll have to break your fast without me.” His sister didn’t look happy about that but she nodded her head to him before he turned and stalked away, leaving them both behind.

Jon sighed heavily and squeezed his eyes shut, stymied by this latest development. He needed a plan soon. They were running out of options.

* * *

At the evening feast, Jon sat at the high table with Lady Brienne, waiting for Sansa to come down and join them. It had become something of a ritual, that for each feast both he and Sansa would invite one of the lords or ladies to sit with them as a guest of conversation. Jon wanted to establish that there were no protocols of the court here, that those who followed him and his sister were allowed access to them at any time.

“Lady Brienne, how has the training been since our last conversation?” he asked, turning to where she was seated beside him as he split a roll in half. “I saw a few of the girls with Ser Donnar this morning. It looks to be improved.”

“Yes, it has, Your Grace. I’m grateful for the talk you had with him. I wanted him to understand that the girls need every bit as much training as their brothers, if they’re to survive. I think you stated your case very well. He seemed most impressed by your words.”

“I thank ye for it, my lady, but it’s a slow process, isn’t it? To persuade people to change their minds about beliefs they’ve held all their lives. I’ve learned that … well, sometimes it takes more than an appeal for common ground. Let’s just say it was a hard lesson.”

She gave him a sobering look. “Yes, I suppose it was.”

“Word has it that you’ve turned your squire into quite the swordsman. The soldiers he’s been working with were impressed by his skill. I’ve heard from many of my men that they wouldn’t mind having you as a teacher, after watching the two of you train. You’ve quite the following,” he finished with a smile.

Lady Brienne looked down to her plate with a shy grin, her cheeks bright with color. “That is very kind of you to say, Your Grace. I would, of course, offer my services wherever they’re required.” She glanced up at him with her eyes sparkling. “I think my father would like you, Your Grace, if you don’t mind me being so forward.”

“Not at all. Why do you think that?”

“It was my father who taught me to fight when I was a young girl. He insisted on showing me properly himself, ignoring those who deemed it unbecoming for a young lady. He would find your attitude refreshing.”

“It sounds like your father was a powerful influence for you then, Lady Brienne. It’s been the same for me,” he shared, his eyes on his cup before taking a swig of his ale. He swiped a thumb across his moustache to clear the foam as he thought of his father, could spot the table towards the back of the hall where he used to sit for the feasts and watch his family, right where he sat now. He cleared his throat as he considered Ned’s legacy. “And how is Lord Selwyn these days? He and your mother, what is life like for them back on Tarth? I’m sure they’re very proud of their daughter.”

“Well, my father’s new wife keeps him fat and happy,” she joked, a small smile on her lips as she cut into a piece of meat pie. “My mother … my mother died when I was very young, I’m afraid. I don’t remember her.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said immediately. “I suppose we share that, too.”

“Yes, your sister –” and then Brienne stopped, her eyes widening as she yanked up her head. Jon turned in the direction she gaped and saw what had shocked her so. Without thinking, he shot up from his seat.

Sansa was walking down the aisle between the tables, her arm crooked into Baelish’s and her bearing regal as she made her way forward. It wasn’t Baleish who had turned Jon’s head, however. He’d grown used to his sister’s gowns as another form of armor, as they covered her completely in various textures, her color of choice as black as his former brothers of the Nights Watch. In fact, she wore the color so often he’d come to think of her as an honorary member. And while this night was the same, the cut of her gown was another matter entirely.

The dress was as black as the midnight night sky and twinkled as brightly under the light of the chandeliers, but it was her décolletage that drew his attention. Her cleavage was not only exposed, but trimmed by sable fur. The trim climbed up to her neck and across her shoulders until it sculpted her arms, the effect quite striking. The necklace she wore was a heavy wooden ring, very similar to the metal embellishment she carried most days, but this one was bifurcated through the center and hung at her throat, the remaining chain trailing down past her breasts. Sansa’s hair, typically woven in braids to the sides of her head or wrapped in a bun, hung loose and wavy by her face, the way she wore it when she came to him late at night. Her look was as sensual as he’d ever seen her and it knocked the stuffing out of him for a second. What was she attempting to do? He watched her procession, all heads turning to her while everyone stood, a few ladies even gasping. Men bowed their heads as she passed, and Jon had a sudden vision of Sansa with a crown, her people on their knees before her. It passed the next moment, and he watched with the rest as Sansa and her consort strode up to the high table.

When Baelish escorted her to her seat, Jon realized his hands were in tight fists at his side. He unclenched them before Sansa approached and pulled out a seat for her, beating Baelish to the gesture. A light seemed to emanate from her as she put her hands to his shoulders and leaned in for a kiss to his cheek.

“How are you, brother?” she whispered in his ear, her breath on the side of his face and the swell of her breasts peeking from her dress having an effect on him. Jon stepped back and sat down quickly, a deep gulp in his throat.

“I’m doing well, thank you.” He smiled warmly at her. “You look … radiant, Sansa. I’m happy to see you are fully recovered.”

“After this morning, you disappeared. I wondered where you’d gone off to.” She looked to her other side, where Baelish sat with a glass of wine at his lips awaiting his meal to be brought to him. “I’d gone looking for you when I ran into Lord Baelish and he was kind enough to escort me to dinner.”

Baelish bowed his head towards her. “Any man faced with such beauty would surely have done the same, my lady, but it was my luck to have been given the pleasure.”

Jon’s smile flattened to his face, as he stared at the man with such hatred, imagining once again the satisfaction of seeing Longclaw remove his head. Jon gave another sidelong glance to Sansa’s plunging neckline and his gorge rose momentarily at the thought of men like Baelish getting their eyeful of her. The need to cover her was strong but he cleared his throat instead and cast his eyes to the throng of men and women in the hall, his arms fixed to the table.

“We’ll need to prepare all the rooms in the Guest house tomorrow,” he said. Sansa flicked her head towards him and Jon caught the surprise in her eyes. “Our vassals will begin arriving in two days time. Wolkan sent the ravens for me this afternoon.”

“For what? Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I am saying something,” Jon noted, his tone saucy. “Right at this moment, Sansa. We need to meet with all of our bannermen and discuss their progress, if any. Reports are too slow to trickle in, and we have a few matters that will invite vigorous discourse, no doubt.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this when we spoke this morning?” Sansa frowned at him. “You didn’t think I would have an opinion? Would want to be involved in this decision?”

“I don’t see the purpose of having a discussion on whether or not we should set a meet for a discussion, Sansa. It’s done. There _are_ decisions I am capable of making on my own.” He looked to her then, meeting her eyes. Sansa was clearly troubled by his words but there seemed to be something else at work, a subtle need in her gaze. Jon softened his tone, putting his hand over hers. “I appreciate your counsel, always, but much has happened and we are due for a gathering. It’s been near a month since we retook Winterfell. It’s time, Sansa.”

“I would be inclined to agree, Your Grace,” Baelish drawled, and Jon reflexively tightened his grip over Sansa’s hand, the man’s voice like the scrape of rusty nails. “There is certainly much to discuss. Outside of what is happening here in the north, I am hearing a deafening cry from the south as a war escalates between two queens. Just this morning I’ve learned that Cersei has gained the support of Randyll Tarly and his forces, with the commander now firmly turned against House Tyrell. He's been named Warden of the South. Their attention has swung to the Targaryen queen, recently returned to her Westerosi birthplace. But make no mistake, Your Grace, she is an outsider and Cersei will be sure to strike that note repeatedly in her song to rally what little allegiance she can.”

“So far, that appears to extend to Greyjoy and the Iron Bank,” Sansa stated acidly. “The Freys are all but gone, but the Lannisters still hold the Riverlands, thanks to my uncle’s cowardice.” Sansa narrowed her eyes to Jon, while Baelish watched them both cautiously from behind her. “Aren’t you best friends with a Tarly?”

“Aye, with the son, not with the father,” Jon replied, turning away from them both to grab his tankard. “They have no love for each other, and Sam is at the Citadel earning his maester’s chain. I doubt he’s even aware of his father’s actions.” He took a long drink from his ale, his nerves on edge with the turn in the conversation. He had no interest in the wars of the South, but it took him further away from a possible alliance to hear their suspicions in the dragon queen mount. “Tarly broke his oath to House Tyrell and chose to side with the Lannisters. That does not speak well to his integrity or to his honour. I’d put my gold on Daenerys Stormborn in that fight. Cersei is not likely to acquire any dragons.”

“Dragons?” Brienne exclaimed, her expression in open surprise. “I thought that was merely rumor. It’s been confirmed?”

“Well, I’d rather we not blast it across the castle for the moment,” Jon said quietly. “But it appears that is the case.”

“That’s interesting, to hear you say that, Your Grace. That you would side with the foreign invader.” Baelish’s eyes flashed darkly at Jon, that maddening smirk on display.

“I don’t believe those were my words, my lord. I simply suggest that, based on strength alone, the smart bet would be to pick the woman with dragons. And she clearly has the better army.”

“You’re familiar with the Unsullied, then? And the Dothraki?”

“Aye, up at the Wall, we often had time to read a book or two.” Jon felt his blood grow hot, the need to hit something growing stronger. He took another swig of his ale, avoiding the man’s gaze by staring out at the guests seated at the feast.

“Someone told me once that a betting man would put his money on Stannis, when the Boltons still held this castle,” Sansa interceded icily. “And that battle turned out to be a farce.” Jon could see her look toward him out of the corner of his eye as she spoke. “Perhaps we should not be thinking of the odds as a gambler might.”

Jon turned to her. “And who told you that?” His eyes flicked to Baelish, but the man’s expression was stuck on that infernal grin.

“It doesn’t matter; my point is that we need to be cunning, when it comes to dealing with either of them. We can’t discount Cersei’s threat to the North just because she’s preparing to wage war against this new queen.”

“You are correct, Lady Sansa, in that Cersei, much like her father, has looked to the Iron Bank to back her. I hear she’s invited a representative to stay at King’s Landing,” Baelish shared, looking quite smug with the information. “More gold means she can _buy_ herself an army.”

“Sell swords are loyal to none but their own purse,” Jon opined dismissively. “We need only look at Stannis’s defeat as a reminder. They deserted him at the first sign of trouble.”

“Wasn’t it Ser Davos who recommended them?” Sansa added, and Jon snapped his head to face her. She studied him shrewdly waiting for his answer, which did nothing to quell his ire.

“Aye, who do you think told me about their desertion? I would say he’s learned from his mistake.”

It grated on Jon, that she would take a shot at his man. He attempted to settle himself, however, and lighten the mood. Jon watched his sister as Sansa took a sip of her own ale, the servants bringing more food to the table as the conversation stalled.

“You seem to have developed a taste for it,” Jon said softly to her, with a nod to her cup. “I still recall your first sip of ale at Castle Black.” He smiled wryly at her, the memory of Sansa coughing at its bitterness leaping to his mind.

Sansa looked into her cup and then back at him, a curious gleam in her eye. “Yes. I’ve developed a taste for a great many things.”

Heat traveled to Jon’s loins and his face as she stared openly at him, her meaning clear. Jon sucked in a breath, tearing his eyes away from her while he steadied his heart rate with a slow exhale. “It’s good to try new things,” he added weakly as he took a drink from his tankard, a sudden vision of his sister putting her mouth over his cock making him choke. He began to cough harshly behind his hand, Sansa immediately patting his back as if he were a child.

“Be careful, Your Grace. You drink too quickly.”

“I’m fine,” he said, his voice rough. He stood up. “My sincere apologies, my ladies, my lord,” he said to his table companions. “I’ve suddenly remembered I have some matters that need my attention before day’s end. If you’ll excuse me, I will leave you to your meal and your conversation. Do enjoy your evening.”

“Jon.” Sansa grabbed for his hand before he could walk away. “ _What_ matters? Do you need my help?”

He smiled wanly. “We’ll talk later, Sansa. Take care of your guests.”

Jon left the hall quickly, feeling Baelish’s and Sansa’s eyes on his back the entire way.

* * *

Sitting at his desk with his head in his hands, Jon’s thoughts were in a tangle. He’d removed his gorget and gambeson but remained in his tunic, having run out of patience. Frustration ate at him, and not just from his disagreements with Sansa. It felt as if she had been baiting him and he wondered at the change in her this evening. He’d not done much since leaving the Great Hall, but he’d had to get out of there just to see straight, the bitter wind outside which cut through him a welcome relief. In his chambers, however, Jon’s body still burned, his heart thudding loudly in his ears while half started scrolls were strewn about his desk like wilted lilies. A part of him wanted to confront his sister, demand that she see reason and agree to his voyage to visit Tyrion and his young queen. But the very thought only angered him more, as if he should need Sansa’s permission to do anything.

Jon heard a soft rap on the door and his head shot up, ready to call out to his men to let Sansa in, but then he caught his direwolf’s ears up as well, Ghost looking in the other direction as he lay sprawled in front of the hearth. Hands suddenly covered his eyes, and he jerked up in his seat, grabbing the owner’s wrists to pull them away.

“Guess who?” he heard Sansa whisper in his ear, and a shiver ran up his back right before he turned around.

“Sansa, what are you doing?” Her face was close to his, he smelled the ale on her breath, and she gave him a sleepy smile as she leaned over to kiss him. Jon reared his head back, wondering again at her game. “What are you playing at?” he said angrily, noticing with some suspicion that she was still in her black dress, her breasts still inviting but the heavy necklace gone. He had no idea how late the hour was for her visit.

Sansa frowned. “You’ve been cranky all day. What’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t know, Sansa. What was that at dinner? Since this morning, you’ve been determined to prove me wrong, no matter the subject.”

Sansa stood back and assessed him, her brows furled. “And why would you say that? Because I had the audacity to be bothered that you didn’t think to inform me you planned to summon all of our bannermen for a meeting? Or that I didn’t agree to you going off to get yourself killed again?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he snarled. “Stop being dramatic.”

“Well, you stop being so difficult,” she argued. She shook her head angrily, muttering to herself. “You’re ruining it. Tonight was supposed to be perfect.”

“And why is that?” He stood up, getting closer to her. “What is going on with you tonight?” Jon waved a hand toward her outfit. “Why are you dressed like this?”

He didn’t miss the hurt that sprang in her eyes. “You don’t like the way I’m dressed?” she asked, sounding wounded.

“I don’t,” he said plainly. “It is too –” Jon took a harsh breath. “I don’t need to see men gawk at my sister with such boldness. You are their liege lady, not some serving wench to be leered at.”

Sansa took a step back at his words, her mouth a grim line as she glared at him. “I didn’t wear it for them.”

“For _me_ then?” he snapped, his tone heated. “I think we are well past seduction, Sansa.”

He expected her to leave at that, to storm off the way she came. But instead his sister stood there and appraised him a moment, eyeing him critically. Finally, she took a step toward him, reaching for his wrist where his fingers pressed upon his hip.

“Would you prefer I take it off?” she asked him softly, her eyes bright as they bore into his.

Jon’s vision tinged red for an instant before he stepped forward, too, his arm scooping her back as he squeezed her body to his. “Would you?”

Sansa pressed her palms to either side of his face, holding him there. “Yes,” she whispered. Then she put her lips to his and Jon growled in his throat as he grabbed her tighter, pushing her to the wall so that he could flatten himself against her. He couldn’t stand that she managed to do this to him, but he felt a rush of strength suddenly, knowing that Sansa would buckle under the pleasure he gave her with either his mouth or his hands, or both, that he could flood her body with it all night until Sansa was exhausted and she would still want more.

Jon picked her up then, his arms under her legs and back, and began to carry her to his bed. Sansa crossed her wrists behind the nape of his neck to hold on. He thought he could detect a bit of fear in her face as he walked her across the room and Jon reached up to kiss her just before he knelt to the bed and leaned them both down. He grunted into her mouth as they landed, her tongue still entangled with his, and Jon thrust the hardness in his breeches to the indent between her legs, wanting her to feel it.

“Jon,” Sansa gasped as he pulled away to lower himself. “I’ve been aching for you,” she moaned. “It’s been too long.”

He dropped to the floor before her and pushed up her skirt, the petticoats underneath piling in his hands. Sansa was already pulling her legs up to splay them open, her boots resting on the edge of the frame. Jon grabbed a foot and unhooked the laces of her boot, eager to get it off. Her stockings had loosened and as he slid off the first shoe, he dragged the stocking down with a finger, pulling it free at the toe. Jon swept back the lace at her thigh and discovered that Sansa wore no smallclothes. The scent of her arousal slipped into his nose and Jon swallowed hard, knowing she was sopping wet for him and had probably been so for a while.

“Were you bare like this all night?” he charged roughly, his hands working her other boot and stocking as he glanced above the heap of her dress. Sansa leaned up on her elbows and met his gaze.

“Yes,” she admitted and something in Jon roared, to see how calmly she aimed to manipulate him. He glanced down to rip off her stocking and cast it aside, then propped his hands under and over her thighs, pulling them wide open while dragging her body downward with a rough tug. She sucked in another gasp and before she could breathe in again Jon’s mouth was on her. Sansa instantly crossed her ankles behind his neck, widening herself to him as she whined. Jon worked her, employing every trick that he knew would get her off, the taste of her strong, and he felt the familiar pain in his scalp as Sansa tried to curl her fingers into his hair.

“Jon, take this out,” she said in a rush as her hand flitted to the tie around the knot of his hair. But Jon pulled her hand away, sliding his tongue free to regard her.

“Leave it,” he said in a husky burr. “I prefer to have my hair out of my face while I tongue-fuck you,” he told her. Sansa wasn’t the only one who could speak in such filth.

She answered with a moan, her body rising off the bed as she pressed her sex to his face. Jon swiped a tongue along the length of her slit, then tossed his head from side to side as he burrowed deeper, his arms snaking around her legs and flattening her to him.

“Jon, help me.” Sansa put her fingers in his hair again as her legs hung down his back. “I want to be free of it.”

He stopped what he was doing and rose up, sighing at her impatience. “What d’you mean?”

“My dress,” she rushed as he dropped her back down to the bed. “Help me take it off.”

“Bloody hell,” he swore under his breath. “Why didn’t you come to me later, when you were ready for bed?”

“I was eager to see you,” she confessed. “To find out what was the matter.”

“Is _that_ why you’re here?” he asked sharply, his sarcasm thick. “You were concerned I was upset?” He found it dubious.

She looked up at him in surprise. “Something is bothering you and I want to know what,” she said. “I’m tired of your moods.”

Jon stared back dully at his sister, flummoxed by her incomprehension. “Really? You’ve no … no guess as to their nature?” It was disconcerting to Jon, to realize that his sister was finding a comfortable normality in their couplings, as though this were all perfectly domestic.

“I want you to talk to me.” Sansa sat up, pulling her skirt to her waist, the skin between her breasts shiny with sweat. “You know you can tell me anything.”

“Fine, Sansa,” he said dismissively. Jon moved up to slide his hand under her rump and then flipped her over to her stomach, his sister giving a startled squeak. Jon climbed back on the bed and began to tug at the buttons up the back of her dress.

It was much later that she lay in his arms, her open mouth conveying a deep bliss as Jon attended to her. He’d finally removed her clothes, bedeviled by her corset at one point, and Sansa lay splayed out by his side, the sweat glistening on her body under the glow from the hearth. Jon leaned his head over her chest and latched onto a nipple again, Sansa’s breaths a wanton song as he plunged fingers deep inside of her. He’d angled one of her legs up and over his hip, spreading her out for him so he could caress all of her. Sansa’s back lie atop his arm, while he reached around her side so that he could work her other breast simultaneously, his hand curving her torso to pinch tight to another nipple while his tongue flicked furiously over the one in his mouth. Two fingers filled her, the sounds salacious as he pumped them, and Sansa’s hips rose up, a high note in her throat as she rode her pleasure. The heel of his palm beat against her mound and after a few minutes he moved his thumb to press down on her clit. Once she was close enough to her release, he’d go down on her sex again to finish her off. She’d come twice already but Jon wouldn’t stop until she begged him to.

“Oh, gods, Jon,” Sansa whimpered softly as she began to peak, her hips rising higher as she pulled at his neck. Jon moved up and swallowed her groans into his mouth, holding her head to him while he fucked her harder with his hand, until her body stiffened into a plank and she cried her joy into him. It was impossible to keep Sansa silent but he did whatever was necessary to absorb her moans and muffle the noise.

When he pulled his fingers free, they were soaked with her, and so he slid them in his mouth, Sansa watching him openly all the while as he sucked on them hard knowing how she liked to see such vulgar displays. Her chest heaved with her panting breaths, hair stuck to her forehead and across her neck, and a perverse satisfaction rose in Jon for a moment. He tamped it down, sliding a hand down between her breasts to rub at her belly soothingly.

“Feeling better?” he asked in a soft murmur.

“Yes,” she murmured back. “Much better. You always make me feel so good, Jon.”

It was the way she said it that made him frown, however, as his eyes swept the length of her. He couldn’t continue to do this for her indefinitely and he wondered again when this experiment would end. Did Sansa even think about it? He didn’t know how to begin the conversation.

“Do you want me to do it from behind you again?” he asked earnestly. “Bent over on your knees? I can use my fingers as well.” He would put his mouth wherever his sister required it if it wore her out well enough and kept her focus off him. There was no mystery to Sansa’s body anymore, his tongue had mapped every part of it both inside and out.

“It’s all right, Jon. Give your mouth a rest,” she said. She raised herself on her elbows and studied him, suddenly solemn. “I’ve decided that I’m ready.”

“You’re ready to get off to bed? Let me get your dress from the floor then.” He sat up to collect her things when her hand shot out to curl around his forearm, keeping him in place.

“No, that’s not what I meant,” she said. Jon looked back to see her expression still grave. “It’s time, Jon. I want it.”

A chill flushed through his veins. “What does that mean?”

Sansa sat up and leaned against the pillows, her demeanor composed. “That we can have sex. I can feel my body … wanting it. With you.”

Jon stood up, genuinely shocked. He shook his head. This couldn’t be right. _“What?”_

“I’ve given it a lot of thought,” she continued. “And it feels right. I promise you, Jon, I’m ready for this, for us to have intercourse.”

“Well, I’m not,” Jon returned gruffly, incensed at her calm rationale. 

Her forehead creased as she frowned at him. “I don’t understand. What do _you_ need to be ready for?”

“Are you joking?”

Sansa’s frown grew longer as her displeasure mounted. “ _No_. I would never make light of something this important to me, Jon.”

But a panic surged in Jon and he stalked to the hearth as he flexed the fingers in his hand, trying to calm himself. He had stripped off his shirt when he’d undressed her, but still wore his breeches, keeping Sansa from touching him as he saw to her pleasure. The cold air on his skin sank into his bones and he attempted to derive some warmth from the fire, his hand resting on the mantle above him as his mind ran through a series of refusals. He had no idea what she was thinking to suggest such a thing.

“Sansa, what brought this on?” He pivoted to face her. “Why are you saying this now?”

“I told you, my body is finally ready for it. I want to experience it with you.”

He came back to her, trying to reason with her as he sat on the edge of the bed and met her gaze. “You’re not thinking clearly. You said it yourself, what we’ve been doing feels good, and that can be a powerful thing. I understand that. It’s like … being just drunk enough, to want those sensations to continue, to float in them. But we cannot engage in what you want. I am your _brother_ , Sansa,” he reminded her forcefully.

“I’m aware of that, Jon.” Sansa looked at him in disbelief, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Wait, you don’t seriously think …” she shook her head as she trailed off. “Do you truly believe that after all we’ve done with each other already, _this_ one act will suddenly make any difference? Whether your cock is in my mouth or in my cunt, it’s all the same, Jon, if you’re so concerned with our moral failings. Don’t be naïve.”

Jon reared back his head, affronted by her attitude as much as her vulgarity. “ _I’m_ being naïve?” He snorted derisively. “Sansa, shall I remind you that of all of those things we’ve been doing … none of it will result in a _child_. You do understand that's the entire point, don’t you? I will not father a bastard on my own sister. We are not Lannisters here.” He shot up again, pointing an angry finger at her. “And you don’t want to get me started on the _morality_ of all this!”

It was Sansa’s turn to look shocked, a shadow in her eyes that bordered on contempt. “Gods,” she uttered before turning to the fire. “You can’t be this – ” She looked back at him, wide eyes now glistening as she searched his face. “Jon, what do you think happened here?”

“What do you mean? Happened where?”

But Sansa suddenly grabbed for the furs in front of her, covering her nudity as a tear spilled onto her cheek. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she declared, pursing her mouth. Jon watched as her distress settled into her features, her pupils darting back and forth wildly and her breaths harsh as she pulled the covers up to her chin. An alarm bell went off inside of him.

“Sansa, what is it?”

“Jon,” she cried in a voice so small it barely eked out of her. “I was with him for months.” Her eyes locked to his finally, more tears in them looming. “He only wanted me so I could produce his heir. But I – I didn’t want it. I couldn’t –” A sob rose in her throat as she fought to breathe.

The creeping cold was back in Jon’s body, a shard of ice in his gut and behind his wounds as understanding took hold of him. He sat back down and leaned in close to his sister, the sickness in him spreading to his chest. “Go on.” He cupped the side of her face. “What did you do?”

She began to shake her head furiously, refusing to answer, the seam of her mouth bloodless. Jon’s concern turned to full blown panic as her eyes grew so big it was as if she received no air at all. He grabbed her by the shoulders to still her. “Sansa,” he hissed. “Look at me! Are you telling me you were… were you _pregnant_?”

A piteous noise was coming from between her pressed lips, a whimper like a wounded animal, and still she shook her head, her body now trembling.

Jon held her, forcing her to face him. “Sansa, you need to tell me what happened.”

“I knew what Ramsay would do to her,” she confessed in a high pitch, her widened eyes staring at nothing. “I saw the body, how he tortured that old woman, flayed her until her heart gave out. But I couldn’t have it. I didn’t want it growing in me.”

“I understand,” he said, his fingers digging into the flesh of her arms to keep her from shaking. “Who was she? Who was helping you?”

“Theon tried to clean it up,” she cried, her pain spilling over into her words. “There was so much of it.”

“So much of _what_ , Sansa?” Jon tried to keep her eyes focused on him, moving with her to stay locked to her face. “Start at the beginning. You can tell me, no one can hurt you. You’re safe.”

“The blood, it was _everywhere_ , but I told her, I told her what to get, just like Aunt Lysa said, I remembered the ingredients. Tansy and pennyroyal and wormwood, I told her over and over to make sure she’d get it right. The honey didn’t matter, I said, and it was foul without it, but I had to get it out of me.”

“What are you talking about?”

Sansa was crying hard enough that she began to hiccup as she struggled to explain. “The m-moo-moon tea,” she gasped. “Ramsay cou-couldn’t know. But the old woman told me, weeks after, she said my breasts were full, that she could see it in my face, that I had to hurry before it quickened.” His sister’s fingers curled like talons around his wrist, gripping him tight. “I should have taken it sooner. But I needed her, the girl, to get her to help me. It was the only way, Jon,” She looked into his face, her eyes pleading with him as her tears streamed down her cheeks. “I didn’t mean for him to hurt her, I swear to you.”

Jon was shocked. He had heard of moon tea, of course; Tormund had told him about it back when Jon had been worried sick he’d get Ygritte with child, they did it so often. But he’d no idea it could be so deadly, and imagining his sister all alone, lying on the floor of her room as the remnants of her child bled from between her legs filled him with a deep agony. She could have died. It was too much.

“I believe you, Sansa,” he said, rubbing her arms soothingly as he began to have some understanding of what had transpired. “How did Ramsay find out? Was it Theon?”

“No!” she cried. “Theon helped me, cleaned up the meat and the blood. But Myranda saw the girl leave, heard my screams the next morning and figured it out.” Sansa moaned as she pressed her fists to her stomach and Jon took her in his arms, his hands sliding across her back to calm her.

“ _Shhh_ , it’s alright, it’s over. You’re alright now.”

“I begged him,” Sansa groaned into his shoulder, openly sobbing. “I begged him to spare her. I told him the child suffered because of what he’d done to me, how he hurt me. But he wouldn’t listen.” Her arms came around him, too, and they held each other as he rocked her, her wails tapering off as he shushed her, crooned to her.

“It wasn’t your fault, Sansa. It wasn’t. Ramsay was a madman. You can’t blame yourself.”

But Jon’s body remained cold as he considered what this meant for his sister. He wished again for some guidance, wondering if he could ever get her to submit to an inspection by Wolkan. He worried for her future children. The horrors committed on her body were too long a list and Jon felt ill-equipped, once again, to deal with it all. Hearing her tale, Jon was reminded that he’d dismissed the notion too quickly when they’d been reunited. At Castle Black, after hearing all that she’d been through, Jon had briefly wondered then if Bolton had fouled his sister with a baby, had watched for any sign of a swollen belly in the month after she’d arrived. But there’d been no evidence of one and Jon had been only too happy to put it at the back of his mind, to assume that Bolton’s seed had never found purchase and that Sansa would have a family of her own choosing one day. That her body might continue to bear the grievous repercussions of her marriage filled him with despair.

When she had finally quieted, her face buried in his neck, Jon leaned over carefully to lay her down, give her some time to sleep while he wrote a letter to Sam. But Sansa wouldn’t let go of him, her arms still wrapped about him in a death’s grip.

“Jon, please. Don’t go.”

“I’m not leaving you. I’ll be right at my desk,” he murmured softly, rubbing her back. “Get some rest. I’ll take you back to your room when you fall asleep.”

“Let me stay with you,” she breathed into his ear.

“Sansa,” he whispered back. “You know you can’t.”

“Then lay with me, at least, for a little while.”

Jon sighed. “All right. Only for a little while. Budge over.”

She scooted her body over enough to allow him space and as soon as he lay down she was fast to cling to his side, her grip never having eased from his neck. Sansa’s arm draped across his chest, her breasts pressed flat to him, and he could feel the tremors still vibrating along her flesh. He wrapped an arm around her, a hand rubbing across her back again to calm her. Sansa sighed into the hollow of his neck and shoulder, pressing a kiss to the pulse at his throat.

“ _Shh,_ get some sleep,” he coaxed. But his thoughts were stormy, in a whirl, and he wondered what other horrors his sister might still have for him. He didn’t think he could stand much more.

“Sansa,” he whispered after a few minutes of listening to her slowing breaths. “Is there anything else?”

It was silent for a beat, but then Sansa raised herself up, peering down at him through a tangle of hair. “What do you mean?”

He sighed again, staring into his sister’s puzzled face. “Is there any more that you need to tell me? About the things Ramsay did to you? I’d rather you just …. Just tell me all of it now.”

Her eyes crawled over his face for a moment, before settling on his mouth. “No,” she said dully. “I’ve told you everything.”

“All right, then. Good. Now get some sleep.”

Jon took another soldiering breath as Sansa curled into him once more, clutching him fiercely as if he were all that held her to this world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note on moon tea - there has been much debate about the effects of moon tea on the women of Westeros. Just wanted to define that it is clearly an abortifacient, not a contraceptive, if we look at the ingredients and Lysa Arryn's experience. And while this seems to function as Plan B for many, there are a host of issues that could go wrong, namely when it was taken and how concentrated the ingredients. It's all really fascinating reading, however. This was a great post on the subject - https://asoiaf.westeros.org/index.php?/topic/145710-moon-tea/


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to my beta, firesign, for reading choppy portions of a draft I keep throwing at her and giving me notes during this bizarro world we find ourselves in.
> 
> All of your comments and warm words to stay safe are much, much appreciated, so thank you for those. 
> 
> Dragonstone is coming. Things will be changing up, and so I will be interested to hear how you think Jon and Sansa are faring apart. Lots of new voices coming. I'm excited.

**.xv**

Jon opened the door and took a quick glance into the darkened hall. It was empty but for the torches flickering their continuous shadows against the stone. He stepped back for a moment, adjusting Sansa in his arms so he could tuck her head into his shoulder, hands clasped to her waist and her thigh to hold her weight evenly. Jon listened for footfalls, for any noise at all, before stepping out into the cool corridor and pulling the door closed behind him.

His bare feet plod softly along on the cold packed earth and smooth stones of the floor as he moved swiftly, his ears attuned to any change in the servants’ passageway. Sansa had fallen asleep again, he felt her breaths on his neck, but she’d been difficult to dress while half-coherent and the most he’d been able to get her in was the chemise from under her corset. Most of her clothes were still back in his chambers and would require another trip. Jon sighed in resignation as he watched for the door to her room. He hadn’t been in this hidden nook of the castle since he was a young boy when upon his brother’s urging he’d sneak back to Robb’s room in the middle of the night, but he still remembered the steps to his father’s quarters well enough. He remembered standing outside of Father’s door so many times, wondering what he was doing on the other side of it, wanting to explore the chambers when he knew his father and Lady Catelyn were elsewhere. The servants had gotten used to him slipping through these passages back then, as if he were one of them. But of course, he hadn’t been.

_Could’ve been worse, Jon Snow. You had a family. You had feasts._

He recalled Melisandre’s words to him and remembered again that he had been luckier than most. As Ser Alliser loved to point out so efficiently, Jon was still raised as a highborn. That even as a bastard, he had the fortune to be Ned Stark’s son, and that was why the North had made him a king. Yet here he was, still creeping around the outskirts of the Starks’ lives, tending to their needs where required the same as their servants. Anger sat in a lump in Jon’s chest, tightening his throat as he carried Sansa to her bed. His sister had suffered greatly, there was no denying it. That she continued to make him a repository for her degradation exhausted him. What was he supposed to do? Turn her away? Ignore her pain? There was so much else he had to be focused on if they were all to survive, and taking the path of least resistance with his sister had proven to be a treacherous one.

When they finally reached her door, Jon bent her down to grab hold of the knob, taking a glance on either side of him to make sure they were still alone before entering. Once he swept her into her chambers, he exhaled a long, relieved breath, leaning his back up against the wood for a moment. The servant door sat behind a curtain and as he brushed it back they came to her dresser, across the room from her bed. He’d have to do this again; he couldn’t keep her clothes in his room with Hollis about, but at least he had some time before the servants of the castle were up for the day’s work.

Jon looked about the chamber – the fire in the hearth was dimming but gave off enough warmth, the lamp at her table was almost out but the faint light was bright enough for him to see the path to her bed. The bed that had belonged to his father and Sansa’s mother, he reminded himself. The estrangement hit him every time he came in here and tonight was no different. He walked softly, Sansa getting heavier, and slipped around to the other side of her bed to bring her closest to the hearth. The sheets were folded back pristinely, prepared for her lady, yet Sansa had chosen to ignore sleep and left for his room as soon as her handmaidens were gone. To offer herself to him. Jon shook his head with a huff as he thought of her comely appearance at the feast, how it had taken all of his energy to compose himself. Sansa seemed to have no understanding of just how dangerous the ground they were treading.

He bent over to lay her to the bed and she stirred in his arms, her hand still wrapped around his shoulder and neck.

“Jon, what time is it?” she asked groggily.

“It’s early, but not yet dawn,” he told her as he eased her head to the pillow. “You still have a few hours to rest.”

But as before, she held on to him. “Come to bed,” she whispered enticingly.

“Not again, Sansa,” he cautioned her, his body stiff. “It’s not wise, you know this.”

Sansa opened her eyes to him, pulling his face close to hers. “Jon, you said there was something wrong inside of me. What if I can’t – ”

“We don’t know that,” he assured her quickly, taking her arm from her grip about his neck. “You were damaged, yes, and I still think you should let the maester see to you. But we don’t know what – what may still happen. You could be fine.”

A hand snaked up under his shirt, fingers running over the scars of his belly towards his chest and Jon grabbed her elbow to stop her. “My flowering has just finished,” she said, her voice deep and alluring. “I won’t be fecund for several days yet.” She wrapped her arms up over his shoulders and pulled herself up to kiss him. “I know what to do now,” she whispered against his mouth.

“Sansa, what are you trying to prove?” he whispered back harshly. “Why do you persist?”

Her eyes were now focused and clear, and her gaze fixed to his resolutely as she held him, Jon still leaning over her with his fists to her bed. “I want to make this real,” she told him simply. “I want it to be my choice.” She reached up to kiss him again and her lips were soft and sweet.

Jon froze against her, wanting to reject her, to recoil from her touch, but something kept him there. He had expected to feel his father in this place each time he came through the door to see his sister, had tried to prepare for it, yet it had been a surprise to realize that it hadn’t been the case at all, that it wasn’t his father he felt. Jon glanced towards the corner of the room, Sansa’s lips hovering underneath his, and saw her vanity there, imagined Sansa sitting there each morning at her mother’s table, her handmaidens fixing her hair. Imagined Catelyn standing behind her daughter doing the same. And a memory came to him, of his siblings crowding around their mother, her laughs ringing through the yard at their exuberance, of her folding her arms about her children, and Jon hiding behind the stables watching, always watching, jealousy a putrid soup in his gut. He saw the spectre of Cat on his bed again, her screech and her dead eyes accusing him, her disgust and hatred of him ever lurid and lasting.

A shadow fell over Jon’s heart as he stared at Lady Catelyn’s belongings, a cold void emanating from there and spreading throughout him. He swallowed hard and looked into his sister’s eyes, saw her need of him sprout like green tendrils in her hair, ones that reached towards him to wrap around his arms, his neck, his waist, bringing him closer to her.

“Jon,” she whispered again, her eyes beseeching. “You’re the only one I want. I trust you.”

Jon steeled himself against Sansa’s manipulations, tired of hearing them. He would make his own choices, too, refusing to remain powerless in the face of his sister’s demons. He leaned down to take her mouth, to fill it with his tongue, and saw in his mind her mother watching them. A sickening hiss was in his ears and he kissed Sansa harder, let her hands wriggle under his shirt again, tug at the laces of his pants.

“Lay back,” he said to her darkly. Sansa whined in her eagerness, lifting her chemise as she lay against the pillows so she could wrap her legs around his waist, locking them together as if she owned him. Jon reached a hand up over his shoulder to pull at the back of his shirt, and then Sansa was pulling at it as well, her hands rushing up his torso. He dragged the shirt over his head and disentangled it from his arms, tossing it aside while his sister crushed her face to his chest, licking and sucking at a nipple until it hardened. She bit down on it the way that he liked, Jon needing the pain crystallized to a sharp point in his body. It helped focus him, kept him tied to this place.

Jon raised himself on his knees and pulled his sister’s chemise higher, over her thighs, tugged it up to her waist. “Spread your legs,” he said, the words like dirt in his throat.

He saw fear flash in her eyes for the briefest second and he wondered what she saw in his face. Jon brushed his fingers over the wetness between her legs, slipped one to her core.

“Don’t worry, I’m only going to get you ready,” he assured her. He understood she wanted to regain something here, that Sansa would want to direct the entire act. And Jon had every intention of letting her do so. He moved down her body and watched as she opened her legs for him, saw himself press her thighs wider, saw his sister’s ripe cunt glistening for him as he leaned over it to lick a broad strip across her, to taste her, tongue her. Perhaps she was right. What he had been doing to her was not so different to what she was asking; he was merely drawing ineffective lines against a truth he didn’t want to see. That he’d been fucking his sister. This was who he was. He groaned his avowal into her cunt, heard Cat’s death screech in his ear again, Sansa’s answering moan climbing higher as his cock hardened like stone, and Jon knew he was the foulest man alive. The cold ran through his veins like ice freezing across a lake and he probed for what little heat he could draw from his sister’s body as his tongue delved deeper.

When he felt her fingers curl tightly into his hair, he brought his hand up and sucked on one of his own before sliding it into her, peeling back her flesh to get at her nub and taking hold of it while he penetrated her slowly, preparing her for him. Wary of the damage she’d suffered, he wanted to at least make sure she was properly lubricated. But of course, Sansa wanted this, her arousal thick and creamy as his finger stimulated her.

“Get up,” he said to her suddenly, raising himself up on his hands and knees as her head popped up from the pillows, eyes wild. “We can switch places.”

She moved quickly out of the way as he dropped to the bed on his back, laying himself out for her. Sansa was already by his side unlacing his breeches, tugging them off his hips with frantic cries. He raised his arse up and let her drag them all the way down his legs until she pulled them from his ankles and then climbed over him, her expression triumphant as they both watched his cock bob free, ready for her. Their eyes met in acknowledgement, no more games between them.

“You can take it slow,” he coaxed, softening his tone. “Or not. Take me however you’d like. I want you to be comfortable.”

His sister bit at her lip as she stared down at him, eyes doll-like as they roamed over his body. She moved up closer to raise herself over his pelvis.

“Wait.” Sansa froze with a leg hiked up and her foot on the bed. He put a hand to her thigh and shoved up her slip. “Take this off.” He wanted to see all of her.

“All right,” she agreed with a knowing smile. Sansa dragged her chemise up her body and over her head, casting it off with a brazen look of desire upon her face as she put her hands flat to his chest.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asked. He knew the answer already but needed to hear her say it.

“I do.” Sansa leaned all the way down and put her mouth on his, drawing his bottom lip between her teeth to suckle it. She took his hand and put it to her breast and Jon instantly caressed the fullness of it, swiping his thumb across her nipple.

“Stroke me some more.” He wanted her hands on him, to guide him inside of her.

“Like this?” Sansa moved her hand down his body and took hold of him, rubbing up and down the hard length of him in slow glides.

“Yes, like that.” She looked down to watch with interest as she coaxed his cock to fullness. “Tell me what you want to do to me, Sansa,” he urged in a burly voice, his mind swimming in dark places as he crossed his wrists atop his forehead, out of her way.

She looked up at him in surprise at first, before her features were set firmly, her manner decisive. “I want to have relations with you.”

Jon grinned wickedly, an eyebrow cocked. “We’ve been having relations for a while, darling. You can do better than that.”

Sansa studied his face for a moment then straightened her shoulders, her hair cascading down over her breasts. “I want us to fuck,” she said, a righteous gleam in her eye as she sat upon his thighs, his steeliness still in her grasp.

“Is that all?” he taunted in a soft burr. He thought of the first night he’d allowed her in his bed, how his sister had gone to her own darkness, her abuse laid bare. He echoed her words from back then. “Do you want to fuck _me_?”

She leaned over him again, raising her body up so her cunt hovered over his cock. “Yes, I do,” she breathed roughly, her eyes dark. “So much.”

“Then let me see you.”

Sansa kissed him, a possessive cling of her mouth on his, her hands now to either side of his head as she pinned him in place. When she raised herself on her knees again, she cupped her own sex above him, rubbing at herself as she stared down at him with her mouth open for a long, lush moan, as if the sound she’d pent up over the weeks they’d been doing this could finally be released. Jon let his eyes slide from between her legs where two of her fingers would slip in and out of her then up to her face as she watched for his reaction. There was something satisfying in seeing that she’d at least learned from him how to masturbate properly. He liked watching her, and he knew Sansa could tell that he did. She took him in hand again and steered him towards her cunt. Jon held his breath, her opening brushing the head of his cock, and suddenly it seemed as if everything in the room had gone still in anticipation.

Jon thought back to what he had felt when he’d first entered Melisandre, how his body had gone ice cold, and part of him expected the same with his sister, that time itself would halt. But then Sansa was sliding down upon him, he was inside her, and Jon felt nothing at all.

Sansa tipped her head back with a shuddering gasp, her back arched and tits out as her body descended fully on his, and Jon saw in that moment how beautiful she looked, how her desire was a gorgeous and glorious thing, if it had been for any other man. That she was sharing it with him was shameful, despicable. Jon knew this deep in his body. He just wished he could feel it.

“Are you all right?” he asked her, fascinated by the tumult of emotions warping over his sister’s face. Her eyes were closed but a flash of anger was writ upon those features.

“Yes,” she hissed. “Be quiet.”

Jon narrowed his gaze, waiting for her to do something. She was settling herself over him, he felt the potent grip of her cunt squeeze his cock, and Jon sucked in another harsh breath, needing her to move soon if he was going to maintain his erection. Sansa was breathing heavily, and she scrunched up her face, her eyes, as if she were in a nightmare that she couldn’t escape. He put a hand on her thigh soothingly.

“Hey. I’m right here. Tell me what you need.”

“For you to shut your fucking mouth,” she growled from deep in her throat, from a place where her darkness dwelled, and Jon’s heart began to skip faster. His cock felt harder still, his immediate inclination to grab her by the hips and flip them over, to pound into her with every frustration he’d built up since breathing this life once more, was too wild a need. But he tempered himself, giving Sansa her time to process her experience. His body fought him, however, wanting to move and feel her arousal gush over him. He exhaled a long gust of breath as he tried not to twitch, his leg developing a tremor.

Then Sansa began to move.

She cried out, her eyes still closed, as she bounced on him with excruciating slowness and he saw the shivers run rampant through her body. Jon put a hand on her breast to calm her again, the other setting upon her hip to guide her, but Sansa slapped his hand away with a sound of disgust, and Jon found it simultaneously thrilling and maddening – pleased to see his sister in command of her body, yet wondering for the hundredth time what she expected from him.

She continued to move, he heard the change in her distressed moans the minute they turned to peals of pleasure, and Jon stared down to where he was joined to her, watched his cock appear and disappear as his sister began to move faster, her hands behind her to rest on his thighs.

“There’s a good girl,” he coaxed, his eyes fixed to the lurid scene. He took hold of her hips and moved with her. “Keep going, luv.”

“I’m no one’s _girl_ ,” Sansa bit out, her head still leaning back. “I said shut up. You’re always talking, talking, talking,” she muttered darkly.

Jon’s brow furrowed as he considered her words. No one had ever accused him of such a trait before and it occurred to him that Sansa was not actually speaking to him. The next instant seemed to bear that out, as Sansa shifted to put her hands on his face, covering his eyes and his mouth, her cunt still swaddling him as she began to pummel his body with more determination. He reveled in it, the humiliation that burned through him as she sought to turn him into Bolton, letting her inflict whatever punishment she deemed necessary on her tormentor. Jon opened his mouth to the fingers clamped over them, licked at one until she pushed it between his lips for him to capture, and he sucked deeply tasting her cunt, let her slip a second finger into his mouth so they could both become one, a phallic intrusion for him to accept. Jon opened his throat to them, moved his head to fellate them the way he’d done before, the way Sansa had needed. She gasped louder as she followed his lead, fucking his mouth and his body.

But Jon wanted to move with her, wanted to drop into that void so he could give himself over to those sensations, have his mind go blank, and numb himself completely. He raised his hips up as his fingers dug into her flesh. Sansa ripped her hands away from his mouth to drop them to the bed as she leaned over him.

“Faster. Fuck me harder,” he goaded in a throaty appeal.

Sansa slammed her body onto his, her thrusts now frantic as she held herself over him, her hands on either side of his head. Suddenly, she opened her eyes, looked straight into him with the full force of the power she had rushing through her. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“You’re right, I shouldn’t,” he acceded. She was the last Stark of Winterfell and he was just her bastard brother. All of their squabbles and fights seemed to come down to this one truth. “Do you want to hit me?”

There was a shock in her eyes for a second as she looked into his, before they turned cloudy again, her thrusts upon him finally finding a groove. “I want to fuck my brother,” she uttered with a cold clarity. Her eyes softened. “My sad, beautiful brother.”

“You can do both,” he whispered raggedly, guiding her to keep her pace. “Show him that you were stronger than him, Sansa,” he cajoled. “That you beat him.” He raised his hips again to meet her, forcing her body down so he could absorb the shock. “Show me.”

Sansa steadied herself on him, her hands sliding to his chest to leverage her weight as she fucked him with more urgency. Anger flashed across her face and then before Jon could catch the movement, a hand slapped viciously across his cheek, knocking his head to the side. A strange sense of pride warmed Jon’s chest as his head rang, and he smiled at the strength in Sansa’s delivery. _Shield up, Sansa!_ She was much stronger than he’d given her credit for.

“There you go,” he praised. “You should fuc – ” Another hard slap rocked him. Jon’s desire spiked uncontrollably, wanting her to fuck and beat him until he was rendered insensible, until he disappeared into that black space, no one and nothing. “Do it again,” he croaked.

“Jon!” Sansa cried out, and a sliver of him still recognized the need for her to be quiet, to have some comprehension that they were surrounded by people who would use information of a brother and sister fucking to their advantage. She clasped her hands to both of his cheeks, dropping her face to his. “Jon, I’m sorry!” she pleaded, kissing him with a fervent regret.

But Jon wasn’t interested in apologies and he pulled his head away. They were too far deep into this now.

“Just fuck me,” he begged. He gripped her at the waist and pushed her savagely up and down his cock, needing her to reach her climax so that he could be spared, a desperate need in him to fight something, kill someone, any violence that could get him out of his head. A vision of Cat came to him again, of her baring her breasts to him here on this bed where his father once slept, letting Jon suckle her as if he were her own, and a deep snarl rose up and out of the depths of him as he raised himself up and latched onto Sansa’s pert nipple with his teeth, his arms wrapping around her back.

“ _Gods_ , Jon, I want you,” his sister cried, her moans as needy as his own, and maybe that was enough to stop this torrent of madness and loathing, their bodies locked to each other, the walls of her cunt snug around him, knowing that his little sister wanted this, while Jon wanted it to stop, wanted it to go on, his confusion like a sword through his brain.

When he heard her, felt her gush, a trickle landing down into the thatch of hair at his pubic bone, Jon grunted back, a sigh in his throat. This could end, finally. Sansa was weeping unabashedly, holding him tight to her breasts as her body shuddered with her release.

 _“Shhhhh,”_ he soothed, rocking them both together, Sansa still in his lap. “It’s alright. I didn’t mean any of it. Everything is all right.”

After a while, she pulled back to face him, her eyes searching his for an answer. She opened her mouth and released a slight hiccup of a moan as she detached herself from him, settling back on his thighs. They both glanced down to see his erection hadn’t abated at all, the sturdy stance of him glossy and coated with her body’s dew. Sansa glanced up at him in concern.

“Oh, you didn’t –” She shook her head with some confusion. “Don’t you want to finish inside me?”

“I don’t, actually,” he said, his tone pragmatic. “Let’s not test the gods, shall we?” The amount of times he had pulled out of Ygritte just in the nick of time, splashing across her belly or wherever she deemed, had been a dubious method at best, he knew that now. He couldn’t afford such folly this time, the risk too great. But he knew that a part of him didn’t want her to have his seed, either, that he didn’t want to give her this last bit of himself.

“Do we even know if it’s …” Sansa trailed off with a sudden look of guilt on her face.

“What?”

“You were dead, Jon,” she said, a lift of her shoulder. “Is your seed even _virile_?”

Jon took a pause before answering, a bit shocked by the suggestion although it had certainly invaded his mind once or twice. “As I said, let’s not test fate.”

Sansa seemed only too eager to put the thought behind them, yet when she leaned over to take him in her mouth, that cold void rose up in Jon. He put a hand to her shoulder to stop her.

“No,” he said. Sansa looked at him in puzzlement. “Only with your hands.”

She nodded, accepting it without argument, for which Jon was grateful, and began to work him in swift strokes, sensing his need to come was paramount. Jon watched her for a moment, her focus intent.

“Come and kiss me,” he summoned tenderly.

Sansa leaned into him and pressed her mouth to his. He held her with an arm about her back, his jaw slack as he took her tongue, felt her hand on him, felt his arousal spool tighter, his sister’s need of him now contained. When he felt the rush of his orgasm like a wave dousing his head, he grunted into Sansa’s mouth, felt the jettison of warmth hit his chest, felt it roll down to the gashes in his belly, their kiss ongoing through it all until Sansa finally pulled away.

“Let me get something to clean you,” she said as she moved to get off the bed, her demeanor quickly dropping back to her efficient bossiness. But Jon grabbed her by the wrist to stop her.

“Never mind. I’ll clean myself up. I’d best be on my way,” he told her sagely, able to think clearly again.

She wrinkled her forehead, her expression one of distaste. “Why? It’ll take but a moment, Jon.”

“Sansa, the dawn has approached,” he said, noting the lightening sky in her window. “People will be up within the hour. I still have your dress and boots in my quarters that I need to remove. I’ll be fine.” Jon slid to the end of the bed, leaning over to find his clothes on the floor. He pulled them on quickly, his shirt sticking to his chest immediately. He’d probably have to burn the thing. Jon was making strides to the servant’s door in haste when a hand took hold of his arm, turning him around.

“Jon, wait.” She looked upon him gravely.

“What is it, Sansa? I need to go.”

But she took both of his wrists in her hands, pulled him close as she held his gaze, her eyes filled with a penetrating warmth. “Jon, thank you,” she said plainly.

“It’s fine.” He didn’t know what else to say to her.

“You know that you’re all that I love and hold dear in this world, right?” She wouldn’t let go of him and so Jon nodded his head. He knew his sister’s feelings for him were complicated, but he never doubted she cared for him.

“I understand,” he added with another curt nod of his head and a strained smile. “It’s alright, Sansa, you didn’t hurt me.” He patted the top of her hand, both as a comfort and as a prompt to let him go. “I really need to get to my chambers before Hollis arrives.” She finally withdrew from him and he turned for the exit.

Jon left to make his way through the corridor, ever leery of footsteps behind him as he slunk his way back to his room, a disgraced king hidden in the walls of his home once again.

* * *

Sansa stood at the landing over the courtyard, watching Brienne train with Podrick while a cluster of men gathered at one side. They stood by and spoke among themselves, as they observed Brienne’s lunges and skill. Sansa could see that Brienne was trying not to be affected and keep her focus on task, but even as they sparred, Podrick’s face was molded into a grin, happy to see his lady get some attention.

But Sansa’s thoughts were on her brother, where they spent the most time these days. Jon had acted strangely in their last tryst, had tried to pull away from her, but Sansa understood by now that her brother kept things to himself, was an internal creature by nature, and while it frustrated her to have to work so hard to glean any bits of insight into his frame of mind at all, she could at least recognize that he had his own troubles to work through.

She could still feel him, in her body, as if the space he’d occupied then vacated was still awaiting his return, a great yearning in her center, a hole as wide as the world. Jon had given her a great gift, and it pained her that he didn’t see it, couldn’t understand how much she had benefited from his body’s safe harbor. To feel an exorcism from her loins, where only pain had once dwelt, and know that Ramsay lived there no more, that she was free, her cunt was her own, an entry and column to her heart’s desire, was more empowering than she could have ever imagined. She was the Wall itself, the vast woods of the North, unyielding, unbroken, verdurous and thick, and the pride of her people filled her with purpose. And Jon was a part of that, as much of the North as she was, and as important to them both. Without him, she’d still be a shell of herself.

It had been terrifying at first, to feel Ramsay near, remember what he’d done, but then she had batted him away, diminished him instead, and in his place was left only her desire and her brother’s body. Jon was a foothold for her, the means with which to grab onto her power and slap it to her chest, she felt her hands and her cunt tingle with it even now. But there was no way for her to convey to Jon how monumental it felt for her, a girl who had never been allowed to have an opinion on anything, to derive her own sense of self from the strength he provided.

Thudding footfalls on the wood announced a visitor to her interlude, and Sansa could see out of the corner of her eye that Littlefinger was slowly making his way to her. She sighed, knowing that he still sought to drive a wedge between her and Jon. His overtures at the feast the night before only highlighted his increasing desperation in his machinations. She wondered at the information he may have obtained that he didn’t share with her and Jon.

“My dear Lady Sansa,” he purred. “And how has your morning been seeing to you this beautiful day? So nice to see a bit of sunshine amidst all of this wretched weather we’ve been having.”

“Yes, it is, Lord Baelish. My morning has been uneventful so far. Any more news to bring with the delivery of your ravens?” She turned to him finally and smiled pleasantly. “Maester Wolkan says you receive them daily.”

Petyr bowed his head as he stationed himself beside her, a quick glance below to note the goings on of the courtyard. “Nothing to bear today, my lady. I noticed that your brother, the king, was not at your table to break fast with the rest of us this morning, either. After his quick departure last night, I am beginning to wonder if the man ever eats at all.”

“You said it yourself, Lord Baelish. My brother is an extraordinary man. He doesn’t require sustenance in the way us mortals have need of, he is more concerned with how to save us all.”

She felt Littlefinger studying her while she stared below at Brienne pulling up Podrick from the ground to the sound of clapping.

“You make him sound almost … _preternatural_ ,” he drawled. “Perhaps this is why he’s so drawn to dragons. Or is it the woman who rides them that holds his fascination?”

Sansa frowned, annoyed with the implication. “Jon was merely pointing out strength in the facts presented. I’m not terribly concerned with this queen from the East, but if she can destroy Cersei, then at least we have one less enemy to fight.”

“And what of Daenerys herself? Have you considered she may be another enemy?”

She turned to him, a tickling at the back of her neck alerting her to the things he wasn’t saying. “What have you heard, Lord Baelish? We’ve already discussed this possibility before.”

“Your brother has been invited to meet with her,” he said plainly, his mouth lifting to one side in a shared acknowledgement. “I know my old comrade had a hand in it.”

“Who told you this?”

Littlefinger shrugged. “My spies live in many places. Their shared stories often don’t make for anything concrete, or of interest, until one starts to patch them together, like a great quilt, an unfolding of events to come. Stories of power, and the quest for more power, are nothing new, my lady, one needs only to look for the signs.”

Sansa huffed, annoyed with his riddles and veiled meanings. “Just be out with it, Lord Baelish. What are you saying?”

“I have people who give me information who also work for a compatriot in our dealings. He disappeared from the capital when Lord Tyrion went missing, after his sentence was issued. They are both with this queen now, ensconced in her stronghold.”

She searched her mind for whom could fit his description. “You’re not talking of the Spider, are you? I thought you hated Lord Varys.”

“On the contrary, Lady Sansa, I quite enjoy him. He possesses a sharp mind and a sharper wit. That we don’t agree on matters of politics seems a small trifle.”

But she was loath to share anything with him. “So you think this Targaryen queen will want to meet my brother? For what purpose? We have more important things to concern us here in the North than who sits on the Throne. We are an independent nation, after all, and my brother will protect us.”

Petyr cocked his head to the side, watching her carefully, always. “You tell me, my lady.” She wouldn’t confirm for him that Jon had already received the message, but it was apparent he knew and Sansa sighed in frustration at another complication and it’s ill-timing.

“I don’t know what you refer to,” she said tersely. She looked off to the rest of the grounds. “I need to make my way to Maester Wolkan’s turret, if you don’t mind. Perhaps we can resume this later?”

“Please, allow me to escort you there. I came to tell you that I’ve found a good trainer for your hounds. I thought I could bring him to you later today.”

They walked to the end of the landing side-by-side, Littlefinger making his way down the stairs with her as he spoke. Sansa was focused on the activity of the courtyard, however, only half listening while staring across to where the maester’s tower stood behind the kitchens. She was ready to see him, to find out if her body was capable of bearing children. Not that she had any interest in having a family, but she wanted her brother to feel safe, to be secure in the knowledge that Sansa would not saddle him with a bastard. Although, she sometimes imagined what a child from Jon might look like. Sansa remembered Tommen and Myrcella fondly, no matter their fates. They were sweet children, and any child of Jon’s would be good, without question, bastard or no. And Jon would be a good father, of that she had no doubt. Yet, she knew the possibility weighed on him. She wanted to remove any stress on his mind where she could, that would allow their visitations to continue unblemished. Sansa wanted to feel Jon move in her again, wanted to hold him between her legs.

Just thinking of it made her cheeks stain as Littlefinger droned on about the bloody hounds. He thought her a child, still, even though he coveted her for himself, and a tiny part of Sansa wanted to flaunt it in Petyr’s face. That she fucked her brother and it felt good, his cock, and his mouth, and his hands, they all felt good on and in her body and Littlefinger could never measure up, no matter how much he tried to chip away at Jon’s standing with their people, with her.

Yet, the darkness in Jon worried her, and as she revisited the events of the night it changed the course of her thoughts. It had been a shock to hear him ask for such things while she drew him into her body, to want to bring that violence into her bed. He’d triggered a nerve in her, one that still saw Ramsay, still sought to erase him and beat him where she could. But when she’d hit her brother, it hadn’t simply been as a lashing out towards Ramsay’s torment. That her frustrations with Jon had managed to snake their way into their copulation was disturbing. That Jon had encouraged it was a greater worry. The smile he’d given her after felt like some sort of approval and Sansa wondered at Jon’s state of mind once again, an impenetrable fortress if ever there was one.

As if she had summoned him with her thoughts, they both saw Jon suddenly enter the yard from the smithy’s door, Davos right next to him as they stalked across the grounds. A lift in Sansa’s chest, her cunt practically vibrating, made her steps quicken, Petyr taking longer strides to keep up.

“Jon!” she called when they were close enough to hear her. Jon stopped his conversation with Davos and swung his head in her direction, his glance immediately shifting to Baelish and back to her. He paused and waited as the two of them drew nearer, Davos nodding to them both as they arrived to stand a few meters apart.

“Sansa. Lord Baelish. And where are you off to just now?” Jon began.

“Lord Baelish is just accompanying me to the Maester’s tower,” Sansa said, her eyes meeting Jon’s with a heavy impart. She wanted him to know. “I have an appointment with him for this afternoon.”

“I see,” Jon said, holding her gaze with some understanding in his eyes. “I imagine our guests will be arriving soon, then, I heard the preparations are underway.”

“Yes, the Guest house will be ready by this evening, when Lord Cerwyn and his men are due to arrive. He’ll be at this evening’s feast. What of you, Jon? Will we see you there?”

“Of course, Sansa,” he returned, a hint of a smile blooming at his mouth while looking at no one else but her. “I’ll be there.”

The men made small talk for a moment while Sansa felt her longing yawn wide. More than anything, she wanted to spirit Jon away to her chambers and lock the door, to cast off their clothes and make love on into the night, feel her passion mount and her ardor sated over and over. To take Jon, feel his power in her, take him between her lips, suck on every part of him. She couldn’t take her eyes off of his mouth as he talked to the others, knowing that it was an instrument of pleasure like no other.

“Lady Sansa? Do you agree?”

Sansa snatched her eyes from Jon and looked to the person voicing the question. “What?” she said to Littlefinger, unaware of the tide the conversation had taken and hoping her embarrassment was not noticed.

“He asked you three times, Sansa,” Jon said, watching her warily. “Do you think that the reprieve in the snows will bring our travelers to us before the end of the week?”

“Oh, of course,” she rushed. “I expect they’ll be able to make good time. Lady Mormont and young Ned Umber have perhaps the longest to travel but I’ve heard that at least one of them was already on the way before receiving her raven.”

“Excellent,” Baelish offered with a nod. “This should be an interesting meeting you’ll have for us, Your Grace. I look forward to it.”

“I’m sure you do, Lord Baelish,” Jon answered with a tight smile. “Till this evening,” he said with a nod. “We’ll catch up later, Sansa, when you’re finished with Wolkan.” His smile widened this time, genuine and heartfelt.

“Yes,” she smiled back. “Till this evening.”

******

_“Aaah! Aaaah!_ Gods! Don’t stop!” Sansa groaned thickly, her pleas feeling ripped out of her as Jon pounded into her, her back slamming into the headboard but the pain not even registering. The shuddering of the bed against the wall was an incessant staccato of wood against stone that might have been alarming had it been in her brother’s chambers, with his guards posted outside of his door. But they were in her room, their guests on the other side of the grounds, Jon deep inside of her, and the pleasure overwhelming as she begged for more of him.

“Sansa, hush!” he hissed, his body never slowing and his concentration on where they were locked in their lustful union.

Yet her moans simply lowered an octave into a deep bellow, like a cow lowing in pain, the sounds from her feeling out of her control, an animalistic response to what Jon was doing to her insides.

Her leg was beginning to cramp, but she didn’t care. It was slung over Jon’s shoulder, her ankle hooking his neck, and their bodies were almost flush as he fucked her deeper still, the depths he reached eliciting so many stars in her eyes that she thought she might be out of her body and floating in the sky. She’d come three times on his cock already and yet Jon kept on, giving her everything she craved, his body not once succumbing to his own pleasure. That he’d managed to continue every time, as hard as when he’d begun, was almost inconceivable to her, she didn’t think it possible, those harsh lessons Ramsay had given her still stuck in her mind.

“Are you almost there?” Jon asked, his voice ragged and hoarse as he stopped for just a moment, giving them both a minute to catch their breaths.

“I want more, I want you,” she rambled, feeling incoherent, deranged. “Jon, I need you to fill me.”

“ _Shhh_ , hold on to me,” he whispered, his arms slipped under her armpits and up along her back so he could hold the nape of her neck. He slowed down, his hips gyrating as he pinned her, moving with a deliberate pace as she felt that build rise in her nethers again, amazed that her body was able to create another wave of pleasure with all of her energy depleted.

“Gods, Jon,” she breathed. “How can you keep going?” she marveled again, the sweat running from both their bodies. Jon looked at her face, one drop of sweat at the end of his nose, hair wet and plastered to his forehead, while his breaths were harsh and panting as he moved in her.

“Just hold on,” he said. “I just need to … to have a moment.” He closed his eyes, focused on something inside of himself. “I’m going to start to move faster,” he said after a minute. The thrusts into her began to speed up with more insistence and Sansa wanted to cream all over him, wanted to take her arousal, thick with her lust, and paint it all over Jon’s mouth, coat his body with her emanations. She needed him to see, what he brought out of her.

“You can come in me,” she begged. “I don’t want you to deny yourself. Maester Wolkan said - _Oh!”_ Jon started to pummel her again and she wanted to scream down the Keep, but held on to him tighter instead.

“You know that won’t happen.” Jon looked up into her eyes again, a stern warning in his gaze. “I’ll let you finish me off when we’re done.”

But it wasn’t enough. Jon wouldn’t even let her kiss him there, these last few visits, only allowing her to work him with her hand. Sansa couldn’t argue with him, however, realizing she’d traded one pleasure for another. She’d rather have his cock inside her, if this is what it felt like.

Jon’s pace quickened, the sounds of their fucking battering on the stone again, and Sansa felt that surge in her womb, felt that hard fist in her cunt, her tits on fire, and within moments she was crying with it, the tide rushing over her, the ecstasy so all-consuming she felt she might die from it, wanting to be suspended in this glittering shower of sensations for as long as her brother could sustain it within her.

When he finally begin to slow again, Sansa was moaning incomprehensibly, and Jon looked at her again, his face clouded with concern.

“Sansa, settle down. Look at me.” Her eyes flicked to his, she was exhausted, but Jon leaned in to kiss her and Sansa was hungry for him, her mouth absorbing the very air he breathed. A stitch in the underside of her thigh stopped her and she pulled away in a hiss of pain.

“Jon, I need to move my leg, it’s in agony.”

“Alright, wait,” he breathed. Uncoupling them was a delicate move, as he’d been inside her for over an hour at least, but when he pulled out of her at last, she gasped at the loss. “Is that better?” he asked as he carefully brought her leg back down to the bed. A flare of pain locked into her calf and she whined.

“Oh, gods, it’s still painful.”

Jon leaned back and kept his grip around her leg, his hands working the underside of it. “Here?” he asked, rubbing fingers into her thigh.

“Lower.” He moved his hands to where the knot had developed and began to massage it with rough fingers, gouging into her skin to release the pain. _“Yes_ , thank you. Right there.”

He continued to massage her even through his arousal, his hardness evident while his cock remained unattended. He was thick with her, she saw, the black thatch of hair around his erection smeared with her wetness, his cock glistening and marbled. Sansa had believed that after Ramsay she’d never want to see a man’s anatomy again, would find it repulsive, but she’d never seen a thing so beautiful as her brother’s stiffened cock.

When she glanced up, she noticed that Jon had been watching her, his eyes dark and something dangerous lingering there. But instead of frightening her, it only thrilled her.

“What are you looking at?” he asked her, the hint of a smirk suggesting he knew full well.

“You’re covered in me,” she said, her tone matter-of fact.

“Aye, so I am. You’re quite relentless, Sansa, in your pursuit of an orgasm.”

“I had no idea I could have so many,” she replied, a lazy smile forming on her face. “I don’t think I can achieve another tonight, though. I’m quite worn out.”

“Well, there’s a first,” he remarked dryly. His fingers carved into the muscle of her leg with brilliant dedication.

She grinned at him. “Oh, was that your intention?”

But Jon only sighed. “I don’t know my intentions anymore, Sansa. I just try to give you what you want.”

“What about you? What do you want, Jon?” She wanted to see to his pleasure as well, as soon as she could dredge up the energy for it.

He was quiet for a moment, his eyes cast downward to where he rubbed her leg. He reached over suddenly, swiping a finger at her entrance, dragging it upwards to capture the remainder of the release which leaked out of her. Just the slightest touch from him had her nipples hard again, but she watched with longing as he tucked the finger in his mouth and sucked her clean from it.

“I want a great many things, Sansa,” he said, his smile rueful. “None more so than that my sister should know her own strength.” His eyes searched her face again. “Better?” he asked as he lay down her leg to the bed.

“Much.” She leaned over to dip her body towards his, her mouth reaching for him. Jon tipped his head so she could kiss him, their mouths moving slowly, tongues sliding together. Sansa bent her legs at the knee and settled closer, her hand wrapping around his member.

“I want to see you,” she whispered. “Lay back.” She knew that Jon would do that for her, at least.

He gave a great breath as he shifted onto his back, his hardened length still dominating her view. Jon’s arms lay out to either side of him, taking up both sides of the bed, his legs open slightly and his feet to her pillows.

“What do you wish to see, Sansa?”

She knelt next to him, stroking him, her other hand tenderly wiping his sweat covered hair from his forehead. “You know,” she said obtusely. Jon laid his arms over his head, giving her complete access to him while his legs opened wider.

“Can I put my mouth on you this time?” she tried again.

“No, you can’t,” he answered, a smug smile tugging at his lips.

“Not even at the end?” His eyebrows came together in his puzzlement. “If I get you off, I should be able to finish you,” she negotiated. “It’s better than making a mess all over you and the sheets.” She appealed to her brother’s sense of propriety. “It might not be wise to leave such markings for my handmaidens to notice.”

“We’ll see,” he answered in cryptic fashion. “Come and kiss me first.”

She did happily, stroking him with urgent tugs as she lapped at his tongue again. She moved her head down at one point to suckle his nipple, feeling its peak in her mouth and biting down hard so she could hear Jon hiss his approval. “Harder,” she heard him say, and she did, ready to draw blood. His chest rose off the bed as she held him in her mouth, affixed like a leech to his skin. Jon put his hand behind her head to cradle it, keeping her close while her strokes moved faster. When she came up to kiss him again, Jon had his massive hand to her hip, guiding her to move down.

“Sit on my legs, like before,” he said. “I like that.”

Sansa climbed onto his thighs, her hand never leaving him but having stopped her motions while she arranged herself over him. Her cunt was spread over meaty, muscular thighs, and she suddenly wanted to feel him there again. He was right, she was relentless, but it was as if her body had been taking on as much pleasure as it could to offset all of the pain that she’d gone through. She needed this. She leaned over Jon’s body and began to stroke him again, her free hand running down his chest to his belly, fingers traversing between his scars.

“I’m almost there,” he said flatly, not ruffled in the least by his arriving desire. She imagined it was more for her preparedness than his, and something tickled the back of her neck again.

“Is this good?” she asked in quickened breaths as her hand moved faster.

“Close. You know what I want,” he said, his words filled with a dark embrace.

She wrinkled her nose, not sure she liked where this was leading. “What do you mean?”

“You asked me what I wanted, Sansa. So give it to me.”

A chill went through her, but she remembered the feeling it had engendered when she did it, to have that control, to have that same satisfaction from that moment of seeing Ramsay being eaten by his dogs. “And what about me? If I give you that, will I be able to finish you with my mouth?” she goaded.

“If you give me that,” he agreed.

Sansa rose up and leaned over him slightly, raising an arm and then backhanding her brother across the face. Jon’s head rolled to the side, but when he came back up he simply smiled warmly at her, as if she had given him his heart’s desire. “Again.”

She slapped him again, feeling out of breath while her other hand was moving faster, up and down his cock that felt as hot as the blade freshly forged.

“Good girl,” he moaned, with his face to her covers. He looked to her once more. “Again.”

She hit him as hard as she could, imagining Ramsay’s stupid face again, and then Jon grabbed her arm, the one that bobbed like maids on a washboard as she stroked him off, his body lifting from the bed for a moment. “Now, Sansa.”

In a flash, she bent down, her mouth over the soft and glorious glans of his cock, her hands still working furiously, when she felt his hot seed eject onto the warmth of her tongue. She took it, her brother pumping in her a wellspring of strength, waiting until he was done before pulling away. Sansa held it there, reached down to kiss Jon in the ritual they would perform. But he put a hand to her shoulder to stop her, and Sansa narrowed her eyes in concern, wondering at the change.

“Let me see it,” he told her simply. She didn’t understand, until Jon opened his mouth, his tongue out for her.

Sansa was too shocked to think in that instant, and so she widened her mouth, too, watched it spill out of her, a drizzling, viscous thread which ran down until it landed in the dark hollow between Jon’s lips, some of it on his lips even, smearing them like honey on her crumpet. Then Jon was raising an arm, his hand behind her again as he scooped the back of her head and pulled her down to him. She kissed him, licking his lips to wipe them of his leavings, her tongue mixing with his, Jon growing more passionate as he held her to him, a hand on the small of her back as they were pressed flat to each other, her sex on his flaccid member, but it didn’t matter, she was still wet for him, still wanted him.

When they were done, she rose up in a daze, seeing Jon so calm for the moment, as if they’d merely been playing cards. “Are you all right?” she asked, taking the lead before he could ask her the same but her concern sincere.

“Aye, I’m fine.” He looked at her curiously. “What about you?” A hand slipped between her legs, Jon stroking her wetness again. “You seem like you’re not done yet.”

She thought that she had been but then a sudden need for him sprang to the fore, her body ready for him. Feeling him this way, she often thought it was the closest she could get to Jon. She so desperately wanted to know him.

“Perhaps not,” she said, a doleful note hanging there between them.

“You want to get on my face?” he offered nonchalantly.

Back when she’d been a little girl, she recalled asking Robb to let her climb on his shoulders once, to be given the chance to see the world from on high as an adult might, she’d been a silly little thing. He had carried her for almost a mile, and she’d delighted in the freedom it brought her. The next day, as they’d played under a warm sun, Jon had asked her the same, had offered to carry her on his shoulders. She’d refused, not wanting to displease her mother, and had pretended not to notice the hurt expression in his face. Jon sounded the same now.

“Yes, please,” she agreed, stroking the side of his face gently, wishing she could take back all those moments she’d hurt him.

“Climb on then,” he said tiredly. “I have maybe one more go in me before I need some sleep, Sansa.”

“All right.” She kissed him again before shifting once more, bringing her leg over his shoulder. “I want to feel you,” she told him, knowing he wouldn’t understand.

Sansa climbed on and felt her brother warm her once more.


	16. Chapter 16

**.xvi**

Petyr sat watching them from his table as he took another sip of his wine.

It was a poor vintage, barely passable as a wine at all when compared to the full-bodied Dornish reds, the tannins weak and the flavor as dull as the Northerners who made it, but Petyr drank it anyway, swilling it around his mouth as he contemplated the peculiar interactions of the couple seated at the head table.

Sansa shone in this setting, her nature well suited to ruling yet her manner as guarded as he’d taught her. She sat facing Cley Cerwyn at the Stark’s table as they chatted amiably, the man obviously caught up in her beauty, her gracefulness, leaning over on occasion to fawn over her words, but Sansa never giving anything away, her subtle nods of agreement and pleasant smiles committing to nothing, a steeliness there that kept the young lord at a distance.

And on the other side of her sat the bastard king.

He was turned away from her, his focus on his right hand man, the Onion Knight, who was deep in conversation with him, their heads tipped towards each other like lovers plotting their next meet. Snow’s shoulders bent forward as he talked over his plate, only intermittently picking up a fork to stab at a bit of food. Sansa’s half-brother was a curious specimen, a puzzle he hadn’t expected. Since he’d arrived here, Petyr had yet to crack the bastard’s dour exterior to get a good look inside, had yet to gain an understanding of the man’s wants. Had yet to spend five minutes alone with him. Even Ned Stark had been easy enough to gauge, to manipulate, helped in part by actually having a conversation with the venerable lord. This bastard was elusive. There had to be something more beyond the son’s need to secure the North from this wintry storm of dead men and grumpkins. Petyr had heard plenty of stories about the soldiers in this coming attack, of course, but it still sounded fantastical to his ears, a pestilence beyond any man’s comprehension.

He took another gulp of his wine, eyes still on them as the din of the hall grew louder. It was the way they were turned away from each other that held Petyr’s fascination, the almost perfect symmetry of the two back-to-back, their shoulders practically connected with their arms on the table, suggesting that it was intentional, that they were purposely avoiding each other so as not to draw attention, yet keeping close enough proximity to give the impression of unity. With Sansa’s fiery hair and the bastard’s black curls, they were as day and night. Certainly, their bodies seemed to indicate that both brother and sister had very different approaches to governing, both exhibiting in their mien where their focus lay, both engaged in an agenda which rarely overlapped.

There was something there, however, that Petyr couldn’t put his finger on and it was beginning to rankle him. He’d sown dissension wherever he could in the fact that Lady Stark and her bastard brother could rarely seem to agree on anything, that surely this was a cause for concern to the Northern lords in the advent of their independence, but too many seemed to be behind Snow, and Petyr was stifled in where to interfere next.

Sansa had become another challenge. Try as he might, he could not seem to dissuade her of the notion that her half-brother was the right ruler to lead them, though he could clearly see her straining to take the reins herself. He wondered at the sudden loyalty. As long as he’d known her, Sansa had only ever mentioned her half-brother once in passing before that blistering takedown at Mole’s Town, when his protégé had turned him away to cast her fate with her brother’s army. When she’d stormed out of that barn, he’d felt almost shaken, and cursed his mistake in not vetting Bolton’s bastard fully before sending the father an offer of marriage. He knew Snow would fail, their numbers were too lacking, and kept the Vale army nearby until Sansa realized it for herself, knowing she’d come back to him. Yet regardless of their shared victory, he’d been diminished in Sansa’s eyes, and now the bastard stood in his way, taking his place as the one who influenced her. It was maddening.

“You seem preoccupied, Lord Baelish,” Royce noted, taking a glance at the head table for himself. “I wonder to whom your eyes are drawn.”

“I was just considering King Snow,” Petyr said, relishing how ridiculous the title played aloud. Lord Glover snapped up his head from his stew to regard him with interest, eyes bright. The man had arrived with his band only hours before. “I must admit, I’ve not yet managed to determine whether he shares the male Starks’ capacity for intelligence or not,” he said sarcastically. “He doesn’t say much, does he?”

“That’s not just the Starks,” Glover rumbled. “Here in the North, we don’t dine on the sound of our own voice.” He bent down to his food again, swiping his bread through the gravy before taking a bite. “You should mind how you speak of Ned Stark in these parts, Lord Baelish.”

“Why, whatever do you mean, Lord Glover? I had nothing but the utmost respect for Lord Stark, even if he did dismiss every bit of advice I ever gave him.” Petyr took another sip of his wine, his eyes back on Sansa and her brother. She had turned to ask him something, speaking right into his ear. Snow had tucked his head to hers, listening with a grim expression – did he possess any other kind? – and after a moment had begun to shake his head, either refusing or disagreeing with whatever Sansa had said.

“The king is practically a copy of his father,” Royce continued. “Although, he could stand to include a little levity into his speeches. Such seriousness from one so young. Even old Ned was not above a bit of cheek every now and again.”

“I would argue that Lady Stark possesses just as much of her father’s more noble qualities, and yet with the added temperament of her mother, which certainly makes for a much more enjoyable conversation,” Petyr said, holding his dinner companions’ attention as their eyes darted to him and then back to the table in front of the Great Hearth. “Lady Catelyn was a formidable woman, up until the day she died. Her daughter is no less a figure of strength.” The bastard had now turned to Sansa, his gaze quite intense while she spoke. That he couldn’t hear their exchange was making Petyr’s ears itch.

“Lady Sansa has endured more than any young woman should ever have to bear,” Royce said, his face grave as they all considered the stories they’d heard of Bolton’s reign of terror. “And yet, look at her. She’s the very model of grace and humility, while continuing to voice the will of her people. A natural leader.”

“As is her brother,” Glover added sharply. “But this one doesn’t break his vows, nor run off to marry a foreign whore. Still, the king is too quick to invite outsiders into our lands.”

“Isn’t that the very reason for which he was murdered?” Petyr cocked an eyebrow to Glover. “Yet to be able to come back from death, a chance to redo one’s failures; how many of us would pay any price, do any deed, for such an opportunity? You would think the man to be brimming with joy, elated to greet each day with vigor, and yet, there he is, always with that dreary visage.”

“We’re preparing for war,” Glover said bluntly, his attention to his food. “Should he begin each day with a song?”

“I don’t believe those of the fairer sex find his countenance dreary at all, my lord.” Royce looked slyly to the head table, picking up his tankard of ale. “There’s been much discussion on the king’s prospects for marriage. A long list, I’m told.”

Petyr glanced back at the table as well, noticing how both brother and sister had resumed their conversations with their dinner partners, their backs to each other again, yet Sansa’s hand still resting atop the bastard’s arm.

“Lady Stark will have much to say about that,” Petyr predicted. “I’d wager she’ll be the one setting the terms, will make any final selection for her half-brother. And the honourable King Snow will do his duty, no doubt.”

“You think he’d listen to her?” Glover had stopped eating and regarded Petyr with concern.

And there he had him.

“It’s hard to say, my lord. They do so love to argue.”

A sudden movement at the table caught his eye and he turned to see the bastard standing, leaning down to kiss his sister’s forehead before nodding to the two men who stood with him. The king stalked off, in that furious way of his, and Petyr observed Sansa attempting to give Lord Cerwyn her full attention, yet her head swiveling every few seconds to watch her brother leave.

Petyr’s curiosity was piqued. The bastard appeared to be incapable of sitting in one place for too long, his restlessness having become apparent to all, but Petyr had inquired wherever he could to discover the details of Snow’s destinations. He had a handful of spies at Winterfell, along with his own servants, all of whom kept him informed of the bastard’s comings and goings, but the itinerary failed to provide anything illuminating. He really was a dull fellow. Evenings for Snow were so often spent in the Great Keep and Petyr had not yet managed to breach that fortress, the servants assigned to the family wing unapproachable. The closest he could get to Sansa was through the boy tending her dogs, and now the new kennel master he’d procured would be another pair of eyes for the extra coin.

“There goes the king again, without his Hand following behind him,” Petyr commented. “Where does he go every night when he leaves so early?”

“I’ve heard he’s been spending time in the Library tower,” Royce said. “The Onion Knight as his Hand? Was that in jest, Lord Baelish? I thought Davos merely a trusted advisor?”

“He might as well be,” Petyr rasped. “Ser Davos is an interesting fellow, isn’t he? So loyal to Stannis, who hacked off his fingers and imprisoned him in the cells below Dragonstone for months. And now he’s loyal to a king in the North, a country he has no vested interest in. What do you suppose motivates a disciple like that?”

The conversation quickly turned to Stannis’ failures, a recurring topic that bored Petyr, but as he stared at the head table he saw Sansa rise. It hadn’t even been five minutes since her brother had departed, and his eyes shot to her immediately as he finished the contents of his glass. He watched as Lord Cerwyn bowed to her, and Ser Davos, too, and then Sansa stopped briefly to talk to one of the servants. Then she was heading for the doors. Petyr stood, too.

“Gentlemen, it seems I’ve had too much wine this evening. I think I’ll retire to my chambers to get an early rest. I thank you for the invigorating conversation. Till tomorrow.”

The men at his table nodded sternly to him and then he was moving on swift feet, his sight on Sansa making her way out. 

When he came into the foyer of the Great Hall, Petyr stood by the doors and peered from the corner of one, seeing that Sansa was heading towards the family Keep. The moon was full this night, bathing the courtyard in brightness, and so he hung back until she’d made enough tracks to pass the small Sept. Instead of entering through the archway to the Keep, however, Sansa turned towards the training yard. Petyr grew more curious. Where was she headed so late at this hour? He followed her into the night, keeping close to the granite stones of the buildings and out of sight. Sansa walked steadily to the foot of the stairs leading up to the covered walkway. She disappeared into the shadows briefly, but then reappeared walking across the landing. The moon caught the glint of metal on her breast, where her chains hung from her furs, and Petyr hurried his steps to see where her evening jaunt would take him.

He moved to stand behind a well for cover, watching her reach the end of the walkway to take a sudden detour whereupon she disappeared again. Petyr realized she was making her way to the battlements, and quickly followed the trail, the sounds of revelry still carrying over the grounds from the open doors of the dining hall behind him. On the wood, his fine leather boots tread softly now that he knew where she was heading but as he looked up he saw a figure already standing on the ramparts, the moon aglow behind the stark silhouette, one draped with a heavy fur collar. Petyr crouched back in darkness, moving stealthily to the entrance to the stone stairs. He took a quick glance inside to see if Sansa was still there, peering into darkness, an eerie silence contained in the walls. Petyr started the trek up, when he suddenly heard Sansa, her voice a high pitch that carried on the wind trapped in the tunnel of the staircase. He climbed faster until he reached the halfway mark, the moon lighting the remainder of his way with the exit in sight. Two people stood at the top through his glimpse of the outside and Petyr instinctively ducked back to flatten himself to the stone. He heard a burly voice reply to her but the wind garbled their words and Petyr crept slowly up a few more steps, his ears attuned for their voices.

“Sansa, no,” he heard the bastard shout hoarsely. “How many times do I have to say it?” But Sansa’s reply was caught by the winds again, sounding further away, and as Petyr dared another glance to the outside, he saw that they had ambled their way to the other end of the battlements, where the path took another sharp turn. Sansa grabbed her brother by the arm and jerked him around to face her, speaking heatedly, but Petyr could only catch snatches of her words and he grew frustrated with the poor conditions for eavesdropping he faced in the stairwell.

Yet as he watched, the bastard turned away from her once more, staring out over the land beyond the castle. Sansa seemed to latch herself to her brother’s back, tucking her arms about his waist, and her face leaned in close to his as she spoke in his ear. Petyr couldn’t hear any of it, but her body’s position against Snow, the way she seemed so close to her brother, somewhat alarmed him. He had thought them at odds, their relationship strained. So which was it?

Then suddenly, he saw them turn and begin to come towards him. Petyr quickly moved down the steps with the agile grace of a cat as he exited the stairwell and tucked himself on the other side of the outside wall, waiting for them both to make their way down. A few minutes later he heard their steps echo against the stone, coming closer, and when they were near enough he could make out Sansa’s conversation, finally.

“I told you, Jon, you don’t have to worry. Wolkan said there was no lasting damage, that he can prepare it whenever I need it.”

“Sansa, that’s not what I intended for you to find out. What kind of impression have you given the man?”

“Ladies ask for it all the time, he assured me. Often, it is merely to urge their blood back on its course. It’s not as scandalous as you might think. I’m not an idiot; I do know how to speak cautiously.”

Petyr felt them leave the stairwell, the two of them walking right past him before turning towards the walkway. With Petyr’s eyes on their backs, he watched them walk side by side, Sansa’s arm in her brother’s, and wondered again what they meant to each other. Their voices faded as they walked farther away, and once they reached the steps to lead down into the courtyard, Petyr no longer could make out what they were saying to each other at all. He saw the bastard’s hand wave out across the grounds, and then heard the sharp cry of Sansa’s laugh, as she batted at his shoulder.

Petyr seethed in his consternation, not able to make heads or tails of them. It was maddening.

* * *

“Lady Sansa, you were a vision tonight. Lord Cerwyn was quite taken with you, from what we could see,” Taria said as she unraveled the plaits in Sansa’s hair.

Sansa sat in front of the looking glass of her vanity as the girls worked. She’d gone a bit dramatic for the evening, the girls painting her face with various cosmetics: a bit of tincture to her lips to darken them, some black lining around her eyes and a bit of green colour on the lids. She hadn’t been as daring in her choice of garment as the night before, keeping her body properly covered so as not to vex Jon, but her hair had been intricately plaited high on her head once again, and Sansa noted with a passing interest that Lord Cerwyn had spent much time gazing at her face throughout dinner. It began to bother her after a while, and she’d been happy enough to have an excuse to leave once Jon had officially disappeared for the evening. Of course, she hadn’t adorned herself for Lord Cerwyn, or any other lord in the hall.

“He’s a bit simple, but I suppose I could have had worse to share the meal with,” she commented, seeing a flash of Ramsay at that awful dinner when he suggested Theon escort her in the wedding. The boy tried hard, but deep down Sansa was still loath to forgive Cerwyn not accepting their call for aid back when they’d fought for Winterfell. He was shorter than her, as well, which Sansa was quite used to, although it felt different standing next to him than standing next to her brother. She enjoyed having that little bit of height over Jon. But with most men she found it irritating.

“Oh, Lady Sansa, what will you make of the men who’ve come to fancy you?” Mhaegen asked with a sigh, a _tut-tut_ behind her large teeth as she began to unbutton the back of Sansa’s dress.

“I don’t give a fig who fancies me, to be honest,” Sansa declared, feeling a righteous fire within her to say it aloud. “I get to decide who I want, but I’m done with marriage for a while.” She thought of Queen Margaery, who’d had three husbands before she was blown up by Cersei in the Sept. That she’d even been willing to marry Joffrey for a crown.

Mhaegen and Taria halted their actions for a moment; Sansa could see them in her mirror slide a glance to each other over her head.

“Well, it will be interesting to see which lord the king approves, Lady Sansa, when the time comes. I know he will make sure you wed a good man. Your brother adores you,” Mhaegen said.

Sansa felt a tingle run down her back and into her breasts. “Why do you say that?” she asked with some curiosity, her cheeks feeling hot.

“It’s so obvious he does,” Taria chimed in. “I think you’re the only one who can get the king to smile. He’s so gallant, always taking your arm, being so kind to you. And the way he looks at you, m’ lady, he’s so proud,” she said, her voice trailing off dreamily.

“You don’t think he gets a little testy with me? The other lords have noticed that we are often in contention with one another. As if Jon shouldn’t allow for my opinion.”

“Gods be good, I used to fight with my brother all the time when he was alive,” Mhaegen laughed. “Didn’t mean I didn’t _lohve_ him, nor him, me. It was just our way.”

“Yes, but your brother wasn’t ruling a kingdom,” Sansa noted candidly. She caught the hurtful look Mhaegen made from the mirror and attempted to soften her tone. “I’ve just heard Lord Baelish comment on it enough that I was beginning to worry.”

“Yes, Lord Baelish,” Mhaegen echoed, her tone disapproving. “He’s had talks with many of the servants.”

“What kind of talks,” Sansa asked slyly, with her gaze on the tubs and jars on the vanity’s sleek surface as she moved them around.

“I don’t _knoh_ , milady,” Mhaegen repeated above her. “I only see him from time to time, speaking with the locals, here and in Winter town.”

Sansa flashed a look to the mirror to catch Mhaegen’s face in the reflection, the girl’s mouth downturned as she concentrated on Sansa’s buttons. She wanted to know which servants Petyr had been charming into his service but couldn’t discern whether Mhaegen might be the one to tell her.

“All right, Lady Sansa, let’s get you out of your dress.”

For the next quarter hour, Sansa stood in the middle of the room while her handmaidens divested her of her gown and undergarments. As soon as they were done, Sansa slipped out of her smock, leaving on her white hose and smallclothes, before asking for her robe.

Taria pulled her pale one with the fur lined collar from her wardrobe. “No, not that one,” Sansa said. “The green one.”

It was a dark jade, made of silk, a damask fabric with an iridescent sheen which caught the light. Yellow plumes, like feathers, were woven into the back and front, and as the handmaidens wrapped it around her, Mhaegen tying her sash, Sansa imagined the ways her brother would take it off.

“This one makes you look so exotic, m’lady,” Taria said excitedly, her hands on the hem as she fanned out the back of it, “like the ladies in the East, I’ve heard tell. Especially with your eyes so fetching.”

“Speaking of which, take your seat, Lady Sansa, and I’ll wipe the paints from your face,” Mhaegen directed. But Sansa didn’t want this new appearance washed away just yet.

“It’s alright, Mhaegen,” she said, staring into her mirror to behold this newer, bolder creature. “I’ll do it myself. The two of you can go now.”

“But, Lady Sansa, I haven’t yet brushed out your hair,” Taria exclaimed.

“I can do that as well, Taria,” she replied dismissively, preferring the wild state of it, the waves left from her braids making her hair as wanton as the insides of her thighs. She thought of Jon’s curls let free and how they encapsulated the desire he held in his eyes. Something unleashed. Sansa wanted to feel unleashed, too, with her brother inside of her.

The girls looked at each other again, not sure what to do with themselves.

“Really, I’m not an invalid. The two of you go and spend some time for yourselves. I’m quite alright, I promise you.”

“Are you sure you won’t be requiring us for the remainder of the evening, milady?” Mhaegen asked as her face lined with concern. “I can come back to check on you.”

“Don’t be silly, I’m just going to be doing a bit of sewing before I’m off to bed. Goodnight, both of you. That’s an order.”

They finally finished with her and left and Sansa breathed a sigh of contentment, happy to be free of them. She had some time to wait before Jon would come to her, but she had wanted that space to herself before he arrived. He told her that he’d come to her chambers when they’d been on their way back to the Keep, that he had letters to write beforehand, and Sansa had thrilled at the news that she would have him in her bed for an entire night. Her thoughts landed on her parents only momentarily as she considered it – like Ramsay, they felt somewhat far away, a distant memory. While she no longer shuddered at the mere thought of her rapist, when it came to her parents and how they might have reacted to her current relationship with Jon, she simply pushed it away. They wouldn’t have understood, least of all her mother. It made her angry now, when she recalled the many times her mother had turned her into an accomplice, spurning Jon’s every attempt at kindness, her words never letting him forget he was inferior to the rest of their family. It shamed her to think of it, and she endeavored to show her brother how much she treasured him.

Sansa carded her fingers through the hair on either side of her face, pulling them forward so her tresses hung over her breasts. She wanted Jon to find her alluring, wanted to see him want her. Desire flashing in his eyes was a potent thing, left her breathless, and she wanted to capture his wildness, to tame it with her hands, to shape its raw power into something she could sit astride, the way her brother rode into battle with thunder between his legs.

She leaned back in her chair, seeing herself in the glass, the want in her face. Sansa drew open her robe below the waist so she could drag down her smallclothes, lifting her bum off her chair to slip them down her legs until they puddled around her feet. She spread her legs wide, opening them far enough so her knees fell to either side of her chair, and pressed the edges of her fingers to her sex, feeling the dew that had already begun to wet her down at the very idea of Jon on his way to her. Her lust was meant to be a shameful thing but Sansa embraced it, relished it, the need for her brother’s body as large and looming as the castle they lived in. One hand came up to open the crossing of her robe so that her breasts were revealed and she imagined Jon licking and sucking on them as she fingered herself.

There was a sudden knock on the door and Sansa sprang up with a jolt, a cry stopped in her throat. She stood up quickly, raking her fingers through her hair again and straightening her robe closed. Walking quickly to the door on light steps, she came up close to the wood.

“Yes?” she asked as she pressed her ear against it.

“Are you going to let me in?” she heard on the other side in a gruff entreaty.

Sansa swept open the door immediately to see Jon standing there. He was still in his gorget and leathers, his hair pulled back, but his expression was casual and amused. “You’re here!” She hadn’t expected him so soon.

“Aye, I am. Why are you surprised?”

Sansa reached for his wrist and pulled him through the doorway, moving aside while Jon strode in confidently, stepping down off the threshold before turning to her. She shut the door just as quickly and gripped the key to lock it. The sound of it sliding in its chamber emboldened her and as soon as she turned around she jumped towards Jon’s body, wrapping her legs about him as she crossed her arms behind his head, her lips roaming his face – kissing his eye, his brow, his cheek, finally landing on his mouth. His hands curved her bottom to hold her and Sansa rose up with the grip of her legs to offer a tit to his mouth. It pressed against his gorget, the cold of the steel hardening her nipple before he held one breast and helped her push it higher, tonguing it instantly when it was close enough to his lips. Sansa was already minutes away from a climax, the arousal slipping to the flesh of her thighs.

“Jon,” she breathed, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Are you now?” he said glibly, still holding her by the seat. “I couldn’t tell.” Her robe had bunched up at the backs of her thighs where he held her but then Jon shifted her and smacked lightly at her arse as though she were a child. “On your feet now. I need help removing my armor.”

A thrill lit her up, her nipples feeling like they were pierced with steel points. She loved undressing him.

“All right.” She put her legs down and stood before him, reaching over to kiss him with the full range of her desire. Her hands crept over his buckles, and once she leaned back, her attention went straight to them, quick to unlatch the shield around his neck first. “I hadn’t expected you so soon, or to …well, I thought you’d come through the servants’ corridor.”

“Why should I need to do that, Sansa? I am the king. I can go where I please.”

She smiled to hear the power in his voice. “So you are. I thought you’d be worried about appearances. Aren’t you the one always complaining for me to be careful?”

He sighed, looking off to the fire as she managed to detach the front piece of his gorget. “I sent Kevven and Torren to different posts and told them I was off to the Library. You have no one guarding you at this end of the Keep. I don’t know whether to rectify that or not.”

“You have men at the entrance, you have men at the top of the steps, and you have your personal guards on this floor. Plus, I have Brienne below. How many do we need?”

“The castle will be full by tomorrow evening with all of our vassals and their entourage milling about. I want to make sure you’re safe.”

She was working on his brigandine now as he stood stiffly with arms out in the center of her room, where she had stood not even an hour ago while her handmaidens did the same for her. “You worry too much. We’re surrounded by those who support us, not our enemies. They elected you king, Jon. Who do you imagine you need to protect me from?”

Jon didn’t say anything to that, at first, but pressed his lips together. She began to lift the leather over his head. “Your friend, Baelish, seemed to be keeping Glover entertained this evening,” he muttered when she moved to rest it over a chest.

“I don’t want to talk about Littlefinger,” Sansa stated flatly, brooking any further discussion by sliding her hands up under his gambeson to reach for the laces of his breeches. “Tonight, I don’t want to talk at all. I want your mouth on me.”

“And how is that different to any other night?” he replied, his eyes hot on her. Sansa waved away his arrogance.

“Well, that’s your fault, isn’t it?” she bounced back at him with an arch to her eyebrow as she shimmied up the padded bulk of his gambeson to force his arms up. “Perhaps if you hadn’t been so brilliant at it, we would be having a very different evening.” She glanced up to see Jon staring at her, his eyes dark and flashing with a dangerous gleam.

“That’s one way to look at it,” he rumbled, his voice deep, before she dragged the garment over his head. He began to help her remove the rest of his clothes in earnest, standing on one foot to drag off each boot, and the both of them hooking fingers into his breeches to drag them down. Sansa was breathing heavily, her eagerness to sit on her brother’s cock like a fluttering of wings inside her.

When he stood naked before her, Jon dropped to his knees, putting his mouth to where her robe laid flat over her mons and breathing her in. Just to hear him do so had Sansa’s desire flaring into a great fire in her loins, the heat rushing through her. She hissed her need of him through gritted teeth, her hands at her sash to untie it, but Jon grabbed hold of her wrist to stop her.

“No. Leave it tied.” She looked down at him in some confusion, but when Jon met her eyes, his hands were on the edges of her robe where they overlapped, and he peeled them back like the drapes in her chambers so the fabric bunched at the sides under the sash. He moved his hands to the insides of her thighs and opened them. “Move over me. Let me see you.”

Sansa did, her robe flowing outward as she draped a leg over his shoulder. Jon took hold of it, his tongue already inside her, one hand sliding over the swell of her bum to push her down on him. He grunted into her and Sansa wanted to lean back, wanted to open her legs all the way for him, to feel light pour forth from her cunt, dazzling rays that radiated her body’s fire.

“Let’s move to the bed,” she directed in breathy tones. “I want you in me.”

Jon pulled back and raised his eyes to her. He scooped both arms around her legs and pressed them close to his chest, as if he would bind her to him. “Have a little patience, Sansa. We’ll get there.”

Sansa reached over to take the thread of leather from his hair, tossing it to her vanity when she had it loose. It missed and fell to the floor, but Sansa’s hands were already in his hair, pulling it free. “How can I want you so much, so often?” she asked, a reverence taking hold for all that Jon had freed in her.

“Madness?” he said cheekily, a hint of a smirk lifting one side of his mouth. She smacked him playfully in the shoulder but he ignored it, studying her instead.

“Your face is … quite colourful.” Jon raised an eyebrow, his eyes roving over her appearance. Sansa had caught the way his eyes swept over her at dinner, the way he had stared at her rouged lips before spending the rest of the feast turned away from her. She had wanted him to like it. She was a woman, not a girl, and Sansa wanted her brother to see her as such.

“Many ladies of the court wear such adornment in the capital,” she said. “I learned of the various applications when I lived there. Cersei’s handmaiden showed me how to line my eyes.”

His eyes widened with surprise. “So you want to look like Cersei, then?” He shook his head with some wonder, a huff at his lips. “You’re much prettier than her.”

Sansa felt her belly warm all the way down to her cunt. “You think I’m pretty?”

“It doesn’t matter what I think,” he said immediately. He began to stand up, putting his weight to his knee before rising. When he faced her, his thumb swiped across her cheek affectionately as he held her head. “It’s simply the truth. You’re a great beauty, Sansa. You always have been. Every man in the north knows it. Why do you think you were betrothed to a prince?”

She felt the heat burn her face. “Jon,” she began, but he pulled her by the hand, walking them both towards the vanity. When they came to the chair, Jon pulled it out and made her sit down. She looked up in confusion, but appreciated that she could see all of him, finding solace in being able to view her brother’s body. He stood behind her and put his hands to either side of her face, turning her so that she could see herself in the glass.

“Tell me truly, did you do this for me?” he asked her, leaning over her shoulder to meet her gaze in the reflection, running a finger under her rouge-reddened lips, now smeared from their kiss.

“I did,” she answered honestly, her eyes forged to his.

Jon stared blankly into the mirror for a beat, before his mouth twitched up into a half smile, the effect quite seductive. She’d never seen such a look on Jon’s face and her body responded instantly, her nipples ready to tear holes in the silk.

“You wanted me to stare at you during supper.”

Her smile spread shyly across her face, but she nodded her head. “I wasn’t terribly successful, was I? You spent the night staring at Davos, instead.” she noted with amusement.

“Aye, while you were trying to distract me. And then you chased me up to the battlements to bedevil me some more,” he smirked before turning serious again. “But this doesn’t seem like you. I’ve never seen you paint yourself up this way before. People notice such a thing. Lord Cerwyn most assuredly did.”

“Lord Cerwyn had a peppercorn stuck between his teeth for most of our conversation.” Sansa glanced down to the table, away from his gaze. “I want you to see me differently.”

“Believe me, Sansa, I do. You’re a strong woman. Proud and beautiful, the way you are. You don’t need to paint yourself for that. Now, why don’t you clean your face and I can wait on the bed for you. We don’t want the stain from your lips smearing all over the bed sheets, do we?”

Sansa flicked her eyes back to his with a spark in her tits again, wondering what he had in mind for her. She began to open her jars, daubing the cream to her skin while reaching for a cloth to wipe her paints off as he requested, suddenly wanting to please him. As she wiped the cloth around her eyes, however, stripping the green shade from her eyelids, she saw Jon’s hand appear from the side of her head, reaching for her brush. A moment later, she felt it in her hair, the weight of a hand pressed to the back of her head as the brush tugged her hair straight.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her actions paused while she gaped at him in the mirror, her brother calmly dragging the brush down her long locks.

“What does it look like, Sansa?”

“Are you one of my handmaidens now? You said you were going to wait on the bed.”

“I’m simply trying to help move things along. I thought you were eager to start.”

“I am,” she said, feeling further aroused. Just the vision of her naked brother standing behind her running a brush through her hair was enough to make her breathless. The promise that he would do anything for her rang in her thoughts again, making her head swim with the power of it. He swept his hand along the side of her head and pulled her hair back, the teeth of the brush scraping over her scalp making her think of Jon’s teeth grazing along her breasts and she closed her eyes at the sensuousness of it. Her desire doused her thighs as Sansa rubbed the cloth down the length of her neck, her body now aching for him. The black eyeliner had smeared down one side of her face, a grimy track, and Sansa wanted to leave it, to show Jon that she wasn’t his fresh-faced little sister anymore, that she’d been marked forever. And not just by Ramsay.

“There you are. Much better,” Jon purred behind her, approving her natural visage and straightened hair. Sansa leaned back against the chair, knowing in her bones that her brother was hard, wanting to feel it against her shoulders. She threw her rag to the table and peeled back her robe to expose her breasts.

“And what about now?”

But instead of a retort, Sansa felt her chair lurch backwards, Jon moving beside her to drag her up. Before she could say anything, he had her pressed against the vanity, her bottom sliding on the wood knocking a few pots to the center. Jon split her robe all the way open, the sash still in place, and used the borders as lapels to pull her up towards him, Sansa crashing into his mouth with a cry in her throat. She wanted him so much that it hurt her, a pain in her cunt that begged for his solidity, his body’s fire to consume her. Jon seemed to suck something out of her as they kissed, flaying her from the inside with his tongue and his mouth, and as her legs moved to wrap around him, her hands gripping his neck, she felt Jon scoop a hand at the back of her knee and push her wider apart.

“Jon,” she gasped, “what are you –”

“Hold yourself open,” he demanded, cutting her off. Jon knelt to the ground and pressed his large hands to splay across the width of her thighs as he split her wider still, her legs in the air with knees bent as she held him tight for balance. He eased out of her hold by twisting his head and rearing back. “Grab the table,” he instructed, a roughened voice that had her cunt palpitating. She did as he said, her shoulders against the mirror, and watched in awe as he leaned over her, thumbing back her flesh to expose her little bundle of need. Jon looked up at her as he bent closer, held her gaze as he stiffened his tongue, moving slowly as he stroked it over her bud. She couldn’t look away, her heart beating so loud it clanged inside of her, her eyes locked to Jon’s as he flicked his tongue rapidly, dabbing her so sweetly she thought she might scream. Then he was bending lower and putting his tongue inside her. Sansa could watch it all, her legs so far back that her cunt was displayed for them both to see, and Sansa didn’t have to simply feel the things he was doing to her, it was all right in front of her. When he began to suckle her, pulling at her bean with his lips and fixing his mouth to her as if he were feeding from her, Sansa groaned deep, and when he leaned back so she could see the shine of her arousal all over his beard, she began to beg.

“Jon, I want you in me, right now. Please,” she cried. “I need you.”

He snapped his slate eyes to her face again, as he licked upwards along her slit, and then she watched him lick her cream from his lips. “What do you want, Sansa?” His voice seemed to come straight from the depths of him.

“I want you to fuck me,” she moaned, beginning to feel quite hysterical.

He straightened, never taking his eyes off of her, goading her with a nod. _“Whom_ do you want to fuck you, Sansa?”

“My brother,” she said, not missing a beat, her breaths heavy. “I want to fuck my brother.” She knew what he wanted.

 _“Which_ brother?” He coaxed darkly, drawing it out of her.

She moaned aloud. “My bastard brother,” she whined, feeling hot and dazed and remorseful all at once. “I want his manhood buried inside of me. It feels so good. I want him,” she babbled, feeling unhinged and delirious. Jon stood and she sucked back a gasp, seeing how hard he was for her. His hands slid up from her thighs to the back of her knees, cuffing her with his grip as he held her legs out as far as she could stand it, her rump coming off the vanity for a moment as he straightened one leg out until her toes touched the wardrobe next to them, giving her something to press against. She felt like one of the acrobats that used to perform for Joffrey in the throne room, contorting their bodies for the court’s amusement.

“Gods, your legs are so _fucking_ long,” he muttered into her stocking, biting into the back of her calf and tonguing the material that clung to her skin. With his hands still in place, he dragged her body so that her cunt was pressed against him. She saw the wetness at the cut of him, how much he wanted her, too. Holding onto her legs, he angled her until he was at her entrance. He pushed forward just a bit, until the tip breached her, pulling back instantly. He did it a second time, moving achingly slow.

“ _Seven hells_ , Jon, if you don’t hurry up, I’m going to start screaming.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said gruffly. “Calm down.”

When he slid all the way into her, it felt as though her entire body was pulsing for him, the walls of her cunt trapping him with a squeeze, a great maw ready to devour him. She tipped her head back, her mouth open as she groaned again, desperate for him to start fucking her as he had the other night. “I want you so much, Jon,” she gasped.

He held himself there for another moment then slowly began to thrust into her. Jon finally looked into her face, his hunger in his eyes as his thrusts grew bolder. “Does that feel good?” he rasped.

“Gods, yes,” she gasped back, feeling every bit of him. Jon leaned over just enough and then Sansa rose up to meet him halfway, kissing him in sloppy snatches of their mouths as he pumped into her with a ratcheting pace, his hips snapping to and fro gracefully. She reached up with her hands to snake them around his neck, but Jon pulled back, winding down the speed of his thrusts into slow circles.

“Hit me,” he said, his eyes on her, the need there frightening Sansa. She reacted without thinking, slapping a palm across his cheek with as much force as her body’s position allowed. The sound of it echoed loudly against the stone in the hollow space of her dressing area and Jon shook his head with a growl in his throat.

“Good. Harder.”

She did it again, her hand ringing from the impact all the way up her arm, her skin on fire from it, Jon’s cheek blooming into a burnished pink, but he snarled again, a wild thing, fucking her faster, his hands around her knees in a vice grip. The vanity shook with Jon’s lunges, the jars and pots rattling on the wood, her brush falling off the table to the floor, but still Jon pounded her. She hooked a hand around the back of his neck.

“Jon, please,” she begged, “let me hold you.”

Jon dropped a leg and slid an arm around her lower back, drawing her closer to him until he was deep inside of her, his pelvis notched to hers. Sansa instinctively wrapped her legs around him and Jon lifted her up, moving both hands to her bottom to press her to him and Sansa felt undone, feeling closer to Jon than they’d ever been.

“Hold on, Sansa.”

He hoisted her up, his member slipping out of her, and Sansa cried out at the loss, but then he was turning them, his movements quick, and before her mind could catch up, Jon had dropped her to the bed, his weight on hers as he sought out her mouth. His tongue burned her, the heat coming off of him in waves, but Sansa opened her body to him, feeling that fire scrub her clean, a sweet torture. Jon moved down her body, his mouth now claiming a breast, she felt his tongue mashed to her nipple, and then he was in her again and Sansa brought her ankles up to rest on the small of his back, the heels of her feet digging in, goading him to fuck her faster as his thrusts came furiously.

“Jon,” she called to him, the pleasure swirling to dizzying heights as she held him close. Never had she felt such freedom. “Jon. I’m going to come.” Then light poured into her.

**

Sansa lay panting on the bed, Jon’s harsh breaths a beat behind her own. She rolled her head lazily to the side, feeling exhaustion sweep through her as it twined with her bliss. Jon was laid out flat, the back of his hand over his eyes as she watched his chest fall and rise from his exertions. They’d been at it for several hours. Sansa had stopped counting the many times she reached her release; they seemed to roll right into each other by now, a steady litany of rousing climaxes. But as her eyes scanned her brother’s body, she could see that he had stayed erect throughout it all, refrained from giving in to his own orgasm so as not to soil her. There was no need for it, this constant abstention, when she’d already informed him of Wolkan’s procurement of the ingredients required should Jon’s seed take root. The maester had known instantly what had occurred when she’d given him a vague description of her illness, and she suspected he might have already been privy to the details long before then. Wolkan made it clear to her he was not fettered by any moral quandary when it came to the tea’s intent, that he could provide her with whatever was required at the utmost discretion. But there was more to it, still – a part of her _wanted_ Jon’s issue, wanted to feel his release inside of her. It made their union more real.

Sansa turned onto her stomach to regard him.

“Jon, why are you doing this to yourself?” she chided easily, as she reached over to slide a hand from his thigh right up to the base of him, circling his girth. He jerked at her touch and quickly scraped her hand away. “It’s not necessary, I told you. But you persist, refusing to give in to your pleasure.”

“Sansa, I’m fine. I just need a few minutes and then I’ll be back at it, alright?”

“Are we in a tourney?” she asked, irritated with his martyrdom, as if it were his duty to fuck her and he should find no joy in it. “Are you preparing to mount your horse and take hold of your stick for the next joust?”

“It’s called a lance, Sansa, and no, I’m not preparing anything, I’m just taking a respite so I don’t … I don’t ruin it for you.”

“How are you ruining it?”

He finally looked at her, using his elbows to support him as he raised his body up. “Sansa, it’s a bit different for men. Once we’ve … _spent_ , it takes some time to get one’s body in that state again. And there’s the whole,” he sounded his disgust in his throat as he waved a hand outward, “ _mess_ of it, and such ablutions that must follow. It’s easier to wait until you’re finished.”

“It didn’t take very long at all for _some_ men,” she said sharply, annoyed that Jon continued to talk to her as if she were unaware of these things, as if Ramsay hadn’t terrorized her many a night by taking her more than once, just to make sure his seed hit home.

“Oh gods, can I please have _one_ night of not having to hearing about that fucker?”

“Well, why are you so resistant to Wolkan’s moon tea? He’ll do a far better job at it than –” She stopped herself, remembering the fate of the girl who had helped her.

Jon glared at her. “Sansa, you almost bled to death from that concoction once already. Why are you so determined to try it again? There’s no need for it. I do have a modicum of self control.”

Sansa turned away with a note of exasperation, her hand _flumping_ to the bed in anger. She sat up. “So fine, don’t see to your climax in that channel, then.”

It was the last bastion of Ramsay’s hold on her, after all. Sansa was ready to see it through to the end, that Jon should excoriate the final blemish of Ramsay’s dark stamp in her body.

Jon craned his neck back to look her into the face, his eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What do you mean by that?”

She felt a deep sigh rise out of her, wishing she didn’t have to explain it all, that he could figure it out for himself.

“Well, I know you don’t want me to bring up Ramsay, but he did … you know where he hurt me. He used to say that whores knew how to use their second hole so as not to get pregnant. And I know now, from the things I used to hear in King’s Landing, things people would say in front of me because they thought me ignorant, that even ladies of the court would sometimes resort to this method to preserve their maidenhead.”

Jon sat up instantly, his eyes widening but staying locked to hers. He didn’t say a word, he didn’t even move. He just stared at her, his mouth a grim line.

“What? Surely you’re aware of this?” Jon continued to glare. “Help me here, Jon, you _do_ _know_ to what I’m referring t – ”

“Yes, Sansa,” Jon interrupted with a grimace, his eyes glittering darkly with his anger. “I am aware that my sister is asking me to fuck her in her arse, thank you.”

She felt instantly shamed by his disgust but it only made Sansa more determined. Considering the things Jon had done to her already, he was being ridiculous to be affronted by such things.

“Why are you cross? You make it sound dirty and it doesn’t have to be. I mean, gods, Jon, don’t act as though you’re too pure, or too honourable, for such a thing. You’ve no problem whatsoever sliding your tongue into that place. You put your mouth right on it. How is this any different?”

“How is it any different?” he repeated dully, his gaze still on her. “This is what you ask me?”

Sansa reached for him, wrapping a hand around his wrist, her words softening as she tried to appease his sudden hostility. “Jon, I know you’ll make it better. Just like you did everywhere else. I love the things you do to me. You’re a thoughtful lover, and kind. I know you won’t hurt me there, and you can have your release without worrying about a child.”

But Jon didn’t answer her. He said nothing at all, studying her a bit longer, his expression blank, before ripping his wrist out of her hold. Jon moved off the bed, walking a path towards the vanity where he bent over to pick up his breeches from the floor, giving her full view of his backside. Sansa watched in dismay as he slipped them back on.

“Jon, what are you doing? You’re being silly about this. If I’m the one asking for it, why should you be upset?”

Jon ignored her, walking over to her chest where his shirts and his armor lay. He continued to dress with his back to her, and Sansa felt a panic rise in her.

“Jon! Stop being an arse. It was simply a solution. You’re being overly dramatic for no reason,” she charged, using one of his favorite criticisms against him.

He’d scooped his hair back away from his face and was tying it into his knot, his boots on already. Sansa stood up, picking her robe off the floor where it had been flung and wrapping it around her before she stormed over to him, taking hold of his arm by the elbow. “Jon!”

He pulled his arm out of her hold and picked up his brigandine, hoisting it over his head without her help. Making an attempt to latch the top buckle, he gave up quickly and reached for the iron of his gorget. Sansa wanted to hit him with relish this time.

“I really don’t understand this reaction at all.” The hurt in her voice was obvious but she didn’t care, she just wanted him to stop.

Yet he didn’t slow his movements, and now he had his shield on, walking towards the door to take his leave. In a fit of desperation, Sansa grabbed him by the arm again and spun him around, bringing her other hand up to slap him viciously across the face. Jon took it, his head reeling back, but then his eyes were back on her, a stubborn defiance held there that had her wanting to scream the entire place down. Jon put his hand on hers to remove her hold on him and turned away, his grip on the door’s handle before she could say anything more to make him stay.

Then she watched helplessly as her brother left her, quietly closing the door behind him.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was this a long wait? I don't know, these weekends just disappear so quickly and bleed into all the other days.
> 
> My thanks to firesign for her notes on this. I continue to delight in the conversations in the comments, but I may be a bit quieter on what's to come. Just know that there will be more voices in the mix.
> 
> Some lines of dialogue credited to Bryan Cogman, once again from episode S7E2, Stormborn.
> 
> This fic is already over 166k words, y'all. That's crazy.

**.xvii**

Sansa bolted upwards with a gasp, the sheets like a net trapping her legs. She kicked them away in a panic, wrapping her arms around her middle in the dark.

Faint, faraway howls had filled her ears, raising bumps along her arms, and she thought of her hounds outside in the kennels before remembering they were all dead. Were the howls real? Had they been a dream? The pups mewled and yipped but were too small yet to bay at the moon. She looked to her window and saw it hanging there, wide and white, blotting everything out, as the land lay in blackness below. Glancing around her room, Sansa saw the orange glow from the fire dance against the wall. It was empty but for her, and she sighed deep in her chest, feeling alone. She wanted the comfort and warmth of Jon’s body next to hers.

The day had dragged along, and Sansa with it, feeling tied to a horse’s saddle. She had moved from chamber to chamber in the Guest house, checked in on the visiting lords and any family they brought along, followed up with the servants to make sure they were each assigned a guest, housed the extra men in Winter town, and reviewed the menu with Stefon for that evening. And all through it, Jon had remained out of sight. She was tired of it, this same pattern he resorted to when he was too angry to talk to her. The avoidance still hurt, Sansa licking her wounds while she put on a pleasant face for everyone else. It angered her that she had to handle their vassals and all the attending responsibilities while he could go off and brood. It wasn’t fair.

At supper, he’d appeared with Davos in tow, spending time greeting the lords and ladies in the hall as he walked up and down the tables. By the time he’d come up to the sit with her, she was glaring daggers at him. Jon ignored her, inviting Lord Glover to dine with him at the head table and having a rigorous discussion with him on their current arms situation while she sat with Lord Royce, churning with frustration. Jon was gone before they’d even finished the main course, but this time Sansa didn’t go after him.

When he’d left her the night before, she’d stood gaping at the door for a full minute before turning to grab a book by her bed and hurl it into the fire. She’d watched the pages curl and blacken, the leather binding bubble, and all the while tears welled up in her eyes over the way he’d made her feel so small. It wasn’t a terrible thing she was asking for – to want her brother to finish inside of her after all they’d done together, a culmination of their deepening relationship. It meant something to her. And not just as a scouring agent to the foulness that had pervaded her womanly organs. They relied on each other for so much, and she’d shown him everything, had given all of herself to him. Was it so monstrous to want Jon to share himself, too? To express his need for her by releasing his very essence into her body? It seemed a natural thing.

A nervous energy harangued her, settling into her belly and her legs, and soon Sansa was out of her bed and marching across her room to her wardrobe. She wouldn’t stand for this, to feel humiliated by him. She’d make him understand. Sansa unbuttoned her nightdress and pulled her arms out of it, letting it drop to the floor as she reached for her white robe. She tied the sash at her waist as she tucked her feet into her slippers. Her hair was still in a single braid down her back and Sansa decided that if Jon required a more innocent version of her, then she’d indulge him. Perhaps it would help him talk to her.

Walking quickly through the corridor, Sansa came to his bedchambers feeling her emotions at war. She was afraid he’d reject her again, but the rest of her just wanted to yell at him. She stood before his door and squared her shoulders, taking a soldiering breath before opening it.

It was warm in his bedchamber. The fire still snapped and climbed in the hearth, having likely been tended to quite recently, and Sansa saw a candle lit by his bed, where she could make out Jon’s form by the light. Ghost raised his head from his spot on the floor, his red eyes fixed on her with an air of accusation, as if to remind her that his master needed his rest. But it went unheeded, Sansa traipsing softly to Jon’s side.

He was asleep on his stomach, his head buried under his pillows so that all she could see were the taut muscles of his shoulders and back, a few swatches of black curls visible from under the tent he’d made. His arms gripped the pillows as though they kept him grounded, fixed to this earthly realm, while the covers were slunk low around his hips, the shape of his bum contoured under the furs. Sansa knelt down by his head and laid her hand on the bulge of his arm, his strength defined in every inch of him.

“Jon,” she whispered. “Are you awake?”

Jon’s head snapped up instantly and Sansa felt concern leap into her chest. He looked so distraught, his eyes filled with pain, and they widened when he saw her.

“Jon? What is it?” She reached for his face, to caress his cheek, but Jon hooked a hand to the back of her neck and pulled her to him, slipping an arm about her waist as his mouth lunged for hers. She went to him, frantically climbing into his bed as he dragged her under him.

“Oh, it’s alright. I’m all right. I forgive you,” she said in excited breaths as Jon slid the top of her robe down over her shoulders, trapping her arms at her sides by the sleeves, while his mouth mauled her breasts. She tried to hook a leg over his hip, wanting to claim him, too, but the rest of her robe was caught under him and she struggled to set her legs loose. Jon raised himself up and tugged at the sash to unbind it, sliding it free as it zipped up from her waist. Then he was tearing the robe away, and Sansa helped him, both of their hands pawing the silk until it too was free and Sansa could toss it behind her. She opened her legs to either side of him, elated to have her brother in such a state, wildly passionate between her thighs as he shifted lower to move his head to her stomach. He kissed her scars, kissed her hip, the tucked in button of her belly, moving his mouth lower still to imbibe her fluids, to kiss right upon her sex and groan into her. Sansa propped her heels onto his shoulders, the arch of each foot curving over the ridge to his back as she watched him. Jon was all over her, his eyes to her flesh, a mouth only concerned with her pleasure. His hands came up to clutch her thighs, and he groaned with insistence as he began to plunge his tongue inside her slit.

“Here, come closer,” she called in a hushed whisper, feeling a motherly tenderness as she moved down with him, stretching her legs wide with her own hands so he could see and touch everything. Jon curled his grip higher, fingers digging into her skin as he pushed her legs back, her knees high till they hung over her breasts, splitting her until his mouth was lower than her cunt, and suddenly Sansa understood that he’d relented, that he was ready to give her what she wanted.

“Jon,” she moaned, as she felt him tongue and kiss her there, leaving a trail along the seam of the scar on her thigh, where Ramsay had toyed with her, wielding the blade in front of her face till it caught the light, paralyzing her. Sometimes she would see her reflection there, see her terror suspended in the shape of it right before he brought the edge down to slice her skin.

Jon got up on his knees, his hands now wrapped around her leg at the shape of her calf, pushing it back until her toes pointed towards the sky. He pressed his body against it, kissing her ankle, grasping the tendon above her heel between his lips, shifting her with him until the wet, soft tip of him was right at her slit again. A breath later, he was inside, thrusting with ease, his eyes piercing hers as he moved with determination, as though he were trying to confess something simply in the way he penetrated her. She raised her hips and pushed against him, wanting to feel all of him, everything.

“I want you,” she told him again. And she did. It overwhelmed her, sometimes. But she needed to say it aloud, to declare this openly as her desire. Jon said nothing in reply, only watched her as he leaned his body over hers, his face looming closer as his thrusts came harder. Sansa cast her eyes downward, to see the proof of him moving in her, and then she felt Jon’s fingers pinch her chin, directing her gaze back to his, holding her there with him. She rose up to kiss him, tried to keep her mouth on his as they fucked with more urgency.

“Jon.” She uttered his name hoping he would answer, but her brother’s attention stayed fixed on her face, finally leaning all the way down to take her mouth, his hands in her hair, sliding down her braid to grip the end, and his chest pressed to hers, pain in his breaths as he continued to fuck her. Sansa lifted her legs again, wrapping them around his back, and after a bit Jon reached behind him and grabbed for her knee, pushing her leg up until she could hang it over his shoulder, their bodies practically merged as one as the sounds of their impact popped in her ears. Jon drove into her with a spiraling velocity, her cunt on fire from the onslaught. She reached up to hold his face, to bring him back to her, seeing a desperation there in his eyes which she needed to soothe.

“It’s alright, I asked for this,” she tried again, and then Jon was pulling back, his heat siphoned from her. Before she could respond, he flipped her over to her stomach.

“Jon,” she choked through her want, and then he was pushing her up onto her knees, spreading her out for him, the side of her face pressed to the bed and plaited hair sliding down from her shoulder to brush against her nose. His mouth was on her cunt first, beefy hands gripping the top of her bum to her hold her in place, and she wanted to open herself completely for Jon, no longer shocked by an exploring tongue trailing up towards to the rest of her, with hands widening her until he could taste her there – the moist, soft body in his mouth articulate in a way that he never managed in speech. And through it all, Sansa’s face on fire, her flesh on fire, her own screams escalating in her head as she fought her monster, Theon witness to it all, yet knowing Jon would remake her to something precious and new.

She felt him coat her there with a gob of his spit, like a fat raindrop landing at this entrance, and then a finger followed, Jon uttering a soft hush to her for the first time since she came to him. He palmed the curve of her belly as Sansa twitched at the penetration, the quiver in her thighs threatening to topple her but her mind focused on the sweetness of the sensation – this was pleasurable, this was Jon, his goodness transferring to her body, eating away her pain and the violence she held here. When the finger was fully inside her, he withdrew after only a few mild thrusts, then pressed a doubled thickness to her, his mouth fused to her clit, sucking on it hard as he slowly, oh so carefully re-entered her.

“Oh, gods, please,” she cried, tears on her cheeks, not even sure what she was begging for, but needing him close to her in that moment, as she pushed away the screams echoing in her head, under her skin, like tremors in the ground cracking their way across the earth. Sansa reached back a hand to hold onto him, anywhere, just to feel him, her fingers digging into an arm. His warmth eked into her and Sansa felt soothed for the moment, until Jon was moving behind her again, his fingers still inside one channel while his hard length was pushing into her slickened walls, letting her envelop him, each thrust coming at alternate rhythms and then more fingers at her clit, rubbing it with a force that shook her whole body, the lush noises of her arousal making her want to open her legs wider, and the pleasure inundating her as Jon attended to her every source of erogenous output. She was so besieged with it she imagined her body splitting down the middle, end to end, as the Mountain had supposedly split Elia’s body in half with his greatsword, only she would fall open with a rush of new growth, green vines spilling forth, a forest of her sex, wrapping around Jon in a crush of velvet leaves, and Sansa would leave this fear below the dank earth, trap it in the roots. She was strong, she was ancient, she was a Stark, and Sansa knew only one other person in the world who could understand this, and he was in her now, filling her spirit with a gargantuan love.

As her orgasm loomed near, she slowly registered that Jon had pulled out of her body again, both spaces emptied of him, but then his presence was there, a hand on her stomach as he raised her up and his cock ready to breach her. She heard him speak her name – it was lost to her dreams at first – but then she heard the words as a disembodied voice in the fiery glow of the room.

“Sansa. Tell me if you need me to stop.”

He was quiet but firm, his breaths coming fast as they both stayed suspended in the moment, her body ready to take him, eager even, Jon slick with her want at the portal that had bled for Ramsay as much as any other. Jon cradled a hip, easing her back gently as he began to push forward, unlocking her. As he’d done before, he let just the tip of him enter her then drew back, gaining more ground with every subsequent yet tentative thrust. Sansa slowed her breaths to time with every thrust, just wanting it over with, to be done with this final memory of helplessness, needing her brother to erase any last vestige of violence in her body that he could.

“Please, Jon,” she sighed into the pillow, her victory so close. She saw her robe in a heap by her head, her eyes not quite shut, and as she felt the snug thickness of Jon finally lodged inside her, his pelvic bone fast against the plush spread of her bum, she watched Jon dip his hand into the pool of her robe and draw back a strand of the silk, the sash sliding through his grip like an asp rising from the grass. Jon’s body was solid at her back, his mouth on the knob at the top of her spine, and he kissed her tenderly, before leaning over her shoulder, pressing the end of the sash into her open hand.

“Take it,” he hissed. “Hold tight.”

Lulled by his words, Sansa instinctively wrapped the ribbon around the middle of her palm and crushed it in a fist, while pushing back on Jon’s pistoning desire. They moved together as one, her knees feeling ready to give out on her, but Jon holding her up, his strength everything to her, and she eyed the sash stretched taut in her sight with a dreamy curiosity, the length of it disappearing behind her head, only to feel Jon put the other end of it in her right hand a few seconds later.

She held on as he’d directed, pulling tighter as she coiled it around each hand once more. Jon moved in her, his thrusts mesmerizing as all through her body she felt opened to the pleasure he delivered in waves, an ocean of them, crashing into her head then ebbing back. Foam sparkled on the shore in her mind, _she_ sparkled, holding him to her, his breaths in her ear getting shorter, choppier, strangled.

“Tighter,” he croaked, and Sansa pulled Jon to her, carrying him onto her back, moving with him, and his fingers still plucking and diddling the throbbing nexus of her furiously, before everything in Sansa seized up, a glorious release as her eyes sprung open, her cunt squeezing as tight as her arse around his cock to let the juice of her fruit run free, and then she and Jon were shaking against each other, his fingers tearing through her skin with a hoarse groan into her shoulder, and she felt him, felt him spill inside her, like the rush of the rain sluicing down the streets of the city, washing all the grime away.

“Jon,” she sobbed, pulling the ends of the sash to her sternum, atop her breasts, these reins to hold on to and bind her to him.

The room’s sounds and smells began to seep back into her consciousness, Ghost giving a rumbling huff – she could see the beast up on all fours by the hearth – and then she heard Jon wheeze, a harsh guttural clicking in his throat as he gasped for air. Sansa widened her eyes, coming swiftly out of her daze, before shifting up on all fours so she could look behind her.

“Jon?” He began to cough and then she pushed against him until he slid out of her, making him fall back so she could turn around. Her brain tried to catch up to what she was seeing: Jon agape with a reddened face, the sash tied around his throat.

“Jon!” she almost screamed, tugging at the silk frantically to uncoil it and rip it away. Jon pulled away from her drunkenly, his body weaving as he tried to break free of her grasp. His head whipped around, eyes as big as moons as he blinked back at the walls in horror, staring at what, she knew not. Sansa grabbed for his face, gripping his head from his ears to his jaw to force him to look at her.

“What are you doing?!”

“Make them leave,” he rasped, closing his eyes, “I can’t abide their noises any longer.”

“What the devil are you talking about?!” Sansa held the back of his head and ensnared him to her bosom, kissing above his ear and his temple, her panic still not abated and her eyes burning with the shock of her tears. “Are you mad? Why would you do that, Jon? Why? What’s wrong with you?!” Her heart was beating so fast, and she squeezed him tighter in her arms, fearing she’d lose him.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled into her shoulder. “Sansa, let go.”

“You’re not fine,” she said, tears falling freely now. She didn’t understand what was happening. She pushed Jon back by the arms and looked into his face again, her eyes darting back and forth to find some explanation there. Jon’s pupils were so black he looked caught in a spell.

“Don’t ever do that again,” she demanded, shaking him for emphasis. But her brother was back to staring at the corners of the room, a dull shock spreading over his features. Anger welled inside her heart, furious that Jon would do this, in a moment so special to her, yet he brought the dread and fear back in an instant, his manner terrifying her. Without thinking, she slapped him hard, Jon’s head rocking back from the force.

When his face rolled forward, he exhaled a long shaky breath, his shoulders trembling, but his eyes returned to normal, seeming grounded once more. Sansa held him, her hand in his hair.

“Look at me. Tell me you’re alright.”

“Of course I am,” he said, blank and emotionless. “It’s nothing to worry about, Sansa.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked again, incredulous. “You scared me. I don’t understand why you would do such a thing.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head as he cast his gaze to her lap, shifting till he sat on the bed’s edge to put a steadying hand on her thigh. “I didn’t mean to.” Jon raised eyes to her that shone from the flames, black and glistening, trying to absorb whatever it was he was seeing in her, his brow furrowing with concern. “Are you all right? I didn’t want it to be painful for you.”

She sat gaping back at him.

“You didn’t hurt me,” she said, her voice dulled by confusion.

He stared behind them to the middle of the bed. “Why don’t you lie down,” he said. “On your stomach. Let me clean you up.”

Sansa didn’t want to take her eyes off of him, afraid of what he would do next. “I can clean myself.”

“Sansa,” he whined, eyes shut in his suffering. “Please. Just do as I ask.”

With a sigh of her own, she gave in and turned around, lying with her belly flat but upon her cheek so she could watch him. Jon scrubbed at his face, as if waking himself from a dream, then stood up, Ghost already at his side, nervously pacing around his master with his great head tilted up to watch him, anticipating his next action with as much anxiety as her. Jon walked to his dresser where the porcelain jug and its basin sat, picking up the former to bring to the fire. He bent down on his haunches before the hearth as he took hold of the copper pan propped up by the brick, setting it on his knee by a long handle as he poured some water from the jug. She watched, curious, as he fit the pan over the hearth’s trestle, the handle jutting from the flames while Jon rubbed at his face again, fingers pressed into his eyes. After a few minutes, he pulled the pan free and set it to the stone. Sansa watched him throw a cloth into the heated water, then squeeze the water loose. Her brother put the cloth over his entire face as he held it there a few moments longer. She heard another long, bracing gust of breath, Ghost leaning over to lick at his ear. Jon put a hand to the direwolf’s neck and stood up.

“Ghost, lay down. I’m fine.”

When Jon came back towards her, he looked to be his regular self, but he sat down with a heavy seriousness, wiping the cloth over his member with a few strokes before turning to her. “It should be warm this time,” he explained at her expression. When the cloth was brought down on her bottom, she hissed.

“Jon, it’s scalding hot,” she said, still worried about him. But Jon hushed her quiet as he wiped inside of her, removing any remains of his seed, the heat eventually becoming a cleansing pleasure as the warmth seeped into her skin.

Finished with his task, Jon threw the round lump of cloth onto the floor, staring at it as if Ghost had dropped a dead rat at his feet. Sansa turned on her side and curled her fingers around Jon’s elbow, pulling him towards her.

“Come lay beside me,” she coaxed. “I need your warmth.”

He came to her grudgingly, but let her drag his body down to lay in front of her. Sansa folded herself to the back of him, arms around his middle and his chest. He held her hands to him and sighed again, his face towards the fire. It was dimming, the flames making her think of orange-breasted robins clustered in the godswood, greedy for worms as they hopped about. Sansa kissed his neck, her lips on the rapid pulse that fluttered there, a reminder that there was a frailty in Jon, too, that he was sometimes vulnerable. She had promised to protect her brother, but how could she protect him from his own mind? She hooked a leg over his, keeping him to her as she kissed the nape of his neck.

“Close your eyes,” she whispered. “Get some sleep.”

“I can’t sleep anymore, Sansa,” he confessed.

Sansa held him tighter. _“Shhhh._ Yes, you can. I’ll watch over you.” She kissed his shoulder. “I’ll be right here.”

* * *

Sansa awoke to a face full of black curls, an eerie light surrounding her. She flicked her eyes about, immediately recognizing that these weren’t her quarters. Jon was here with her, she had her arm across his stomach, her breasts at his back. She felt the simmering warmth of his body still, the covers underneath them, and she extracted her arm slowly, ran her fingers lightly over the top of his hip before she realized that there was too much light in the room, seeing the brightening sky in the window with a tilt of her head. A surge of panic shot through her with the understanding she’d fallen asleep, likely for some time. The snaps and clicks of the fire brought her attention to the hearth where Ghost slept and Sansa bolted upright with a growing sense of dread.

The fire was roaring.

“Jon!” she shouted in a whisper, shaking him by the arm. She looked around the room now, noticing the plate and a steaming cup sitting at Jon’s round table. “Jon, wake up!” He hadn’t moved and Sansa pulled him back by the shoulder to see his eyes open and staring at nothing in that horrid imitation of death. She didn’t bother to wave a hand in front of his face as she had the time she’d snuck into his room but instead, smacked his face lightly. “Jon!”

His body jerked with a startle. “Yes!” he said too quickly, eyes clearing with a few blinks before turning to look back at her, his expression alarmed. “Sansa?” He sat up with her. “Why are you still here?” he rumbled.

“I think Hollis has been in here,” she squeaked, her terror firmly fixed in her gut. “Someone has tended the fire.”

Jon snapped his eyes to the hearth, before darting them around the room as hers had, landing on the table. He swallowed hard, pulling her hands away from him.

“Sansa, get dressed. Get to your room now,” he said, sliding his legs off the bed as he groped for the robe twisted around his pillows.

“Where should I go?” she asked tightly, feeling hysteria bubble in her throat, cutting off her air. “I might see someone in the corridor.”

“Hollis gets up before anyone else,” Jon stated, sounding disturbingly calm. “You’ll have to move quickly.” He caught her terrified gaze. “Go. Now, Sansa.”

The command of his voice propelled her into action, and soon they were both standing by his desk as Jon slipped her robe over her arms, bringing her sash around her waist. Sansa shivered as he knotted it from where he stood at the back of her.

“What are we going to do?” she asked again, feeling sick, her heart still racing.

“Let me take care of it. Just get to your room. Have your maids draw you a bath. Spend as much time in your room as you can. Don’t come out until I send someone to you.”

She turned to face him, her hand pressed to his chest. “Jon, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

“There’s no time for this, Sansa. Just go.”

Sansa slipped her feet into her slippers and ran behind the wall.

* * *

He heard the door close quietly, a faint thud.

The boy crept into the chamber on tiptoe, quietly aiming for Jon’s table where he sometimes ate. He was about to collect the plate with the untouched scone, his hand reaching for the cup, when Jon spoke.

“Hollis.”

The boy jumped violently, knocking the cup over so that the tea dribbled off the side. Jon sat in his chair by the hearth, waiting for him, already fully dressed. Hollis gaped back at him for a moment, his eyes huge, before he realized the tea was pooling on the floor.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace!” He went to reach for the napkin by the plate and dabbed it across the wood to sponge up what liquid he could. “I didn’t mean to,” he cried, dropping to his knees to tend to the spill.

“Leave it, Hollis. It’s all right. I need you to come and talk to me.”

The boy shot up, his fear a fluttering moth about his shoulders. “Talk, Your Grace? I didn’t – I don’t know anythin’.”

Jon flinched inside, knowing the boy was terrified, yet already sick over the conversation he was about to engage in. It couldn’t be helped, however. It had to be done. He waved a hand to the chair at his desk.

“Bring it over here. Sit with me.”

Hollis stood rooted to the spot, his eyes still big as plates. With a sigh, Jon got up and came towards the boy, stepping behind his desk to pick up the chair. He brought it round to the hearth – Hollis’s gaze fixed on him the entire time – then set it in front of his padded chair. He pointed to the seat. “Please, Hollis,” he tried again. “Sit.” The boy glanced to the chair then sharply back at him. “I promise you, you’re not in any trouble.”

Finally, with tentative steps, Hollis came to sit across from Jon, nervously curling his hands over the front of the seat.

“You were here early this morning,” he stated, not bothering with any preamble. Hollis dropped his eyes to his feet and went quiet, tremors clearly shaking through his arms. “I know you were, Hollis,” Jon said softly. “You brought me something to eat, and my tea, just like you always do, without fail.”

“Aye, Your Grace, I did.” The boy wouldn’t look at him.

“And you saw something?”

Eyes snapped up then, filled with knowing as they stared at Jon. A miserable guilt swamped the boy’s features.

“It’s all right,” Jon repeated, trying to be as gentle as he could and belie the total panic he felt inside. “You can tell me, Hollis. Nothing bad will happen to you. I just need you to be honest.” Just saying the word brought bile up into his throat.

“I – I only came to rekindle the fire,” the boy started, his unease turning his skin waxy, his shaggy black hair hanging down in his face. “And to pre-prepare what you’d be wearin’ for the day. I wasn’t spyin’ or nothin’, I swear, Your Grace.”

“Of course you weren’t,” Jon said. “I would never think that of you, Hollis.” He took a sharp breath. “Just tell me what you saw.” For a shining second, Jon saw another boy before him. _Olly, if you have something you want to say to me, say it._

“I saw … I just,” Hollis flashed his gaze up at Jon and gulped. “I saw you and the Lady Stark.” He darted a look to the fireplace, a blush creeping over his face. “Lying together. And – ” he halted, staring down at his hands.

“Go on,” Jon urged.

Hollis looked back at him with a haunted expression. “You didn’t have no clothes on, Your Grace. Neither of you. Like you was … like you was married.”

Jon felt cold all the way through. He was numb, knowing what he would have to do next. He swallowed deeply as he watched the boy, saw the lad’s disappointment plainly in the slump of his bony shoulders.

“Hollis, I want you to understand that you can always talk to me, whatever it is. I want you to feel you can come to me. Because I trust you, and I hope that you trust me, as well.”

The boy’s eyes widened again, this time in earnest. “Of course, Your Grace! You know I do!” He shook his head. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to … I was afraid I’d wake you and you’d be mad if you saw me.”

“I’m not mad. I just want to … explain to you what you saw. Will you let me do that?”

Hollis nodded quietly, eyes still on him.

Jon paused to take a breath as he considered how to begin.

“Hollis, when I first met you, it was the night after we took the castle back from Ramsay Bolton. And you told me something about your mother. Do you remember?”

Hollis nodded slowly. “Yes, Your Grace. I told you that Lord Bolton had … he’d found – he’d –”

“He hurt her, didn’t he?” Jon finished, the boy looking down to his knees with a sniffle. “He hurt your mother very badly and then he killed her.” He kept his tone gentle.

“Yes,” Hollis said in a hollow voice. “He flayed her.”

“Ramsay hurt a great many people, didn’t he? And I imagine you saw a fair bit of it.”

Hollis twisted his face into his grief. “I hid when he did it. In the larder. I didn’t want to see it, see my mum like that. But I heard her. Heard her screams.”

“I’m so sorry, Hollis. I know how hard that must have been for you. I had to watch Ramsay murder my brother. And he hurt my sister very badly.”

Hollis snapped up his head again, a flash of guilt resurfacing.

“Did you have to listen to Ramsay hurt her, too?”

The boy hung his head, his long face tucked to his chest. “I – I stayed away from the keep, then. Where he kept your sister, Your Grace. I didn’t hear her, but I – I heard things in the kitchens, from folks around the castle, about what Lord Bolton did to Lady Stark at night.”

Jon tried not to shudder. “He was a cruel man. And my sister went through many horrors having to be married to him. I know you’re not yet a man, Hollis, but you’ve seen much of the darkness in men’s hearts already, and know that the world can be a vicious place. So I feel that I can speak freely to you the way men do with each other.”

“You can, Your Grace. I want you to.” The boy sat up straighter, a glimmer of courage shining through his fear.

“My sister,” he began, before a sudden catch in his throat had him falter. “Lady Stark,” he started again, “sometimes has … bad thoughts. About what was done to her here, in the place she was born. She is unable to forget it. This makes her very sad, and very angry. And sometimes she needs to feel … safe. I imagine you have some nights where your thoughts are not very nice, either. Where you have terrible memories that you wish you could forget?”

Hollis only nodded his head hesitantly, owlish eyes in a pale face.

“So you can understand then, how scary that can be, to wake up feeling like you’re back in that place, all over again. When Lady Stark has such nights she … will often come and stay with me. Because … because it settles her. She feels safer.”

The boy regarded him with a contemplative air, but kept to his silence.

“I am the king, but I am also her family, Hollis. And it is my duty to make sure that the Lady Sansa is protected. That I do for her what I can to make her feel safe in her home again. Does that make any sense to you?”

“It does, Your Grace. You’re her brother. I had a brother, too, before he was killed in the war. Otto would take care of me, like you do. Make sure that no other boys would pick on me when I was little.”

“Yes, of course he did. And I want to take care of my sister. But there are those who would … they would not understand such things, if they found out about her visits. They would say ugly words; make all of this sound very ugly to others, in order to turn them against House Stark, against me, as their sovereign. And so it is important to me that I can trust you, Hollis, to help me protect Lady Stark from such ugliness.”

Jon saw the change in Hollis instantly. He straightened in his seat and met Jon’s gaze head on with a committed zeal, happy to be of service to his master again. It sickened Jon for a sweeping moment, a roiling black tar in his gut, and he had to steady himself, to sit calmly and allow Hollis to become a willing accomplice to this unholy deceit.

“You can trust me, Your Grace. I swear it. By the Old Gods and the new. I’ll watch out for Lady Stark for you. I won’t let anyone say anythin’ bad about her no more.”

“This is very important, Hollis,” Jon added quickly, aching to be done with this farce. “So you must listen carefully. You cannot repeat what you saw here to anyone. Not to any living soul. The damage would be too great. And my sister has been through enough. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Hollis nodded once, a somber understanding held between them. Jon stood up and held his hand out to the boy.

“When a man makes a promise, he must always take the other man’s arm to bind it.”

Hollis moved slowly as he stood up from his seat, awe in his face as he watched himself take hold of Jon’s forearm. Jon grasped him by the elbow, and shifted the boy’s grip higher so that Hollis could hold Jon there, too. He held them like that for another beat, meeting the boy’s solemn eyes with opacity but imparting the gravity of the situation in his gaze.

“Hollis, you swear to me today that you will help me protect the Lady Sansa, now and always.”

“I swear it, Your Grace.”

Jon shook their arms once as a binding oath and then separated from him instantly, feeling unclean. “I know you’re a good man, Hollis. I thank you for your vow. And I know that … if ever there comes a time when I have to go, if I have to leave here, that you will continue to watch over my sister.”

“I will, Your Grace.”

“Good.” Jon took a deep breath, tried to shake off the magnitude of his disgust with himself at such a blatant manipulation. “Now I need one more thing from you.”

The boy’s eyes widened again. “Anything, Your Grace.”

“I’m going to need your help with my last bit of armor. I can never reach that stupid buckle at the back of my shoulder.”

Hollis’s smile lit up his entire face, relief in his features. “Of course, Your Grace. Let me get it for you.”

******

Studying his maps again, Jon stood by the table in his office. They’d run out of landmarks they could scout within reason – no nearby mountains that wouldn’t require arduous time-consuming work which they could ill afford. It was difficult to concentrate on the matter, however, with the incessant shouting in his head that herded out the rest of his thoughts, crying out the same thing over and over: _fraud, you’re a fraud._

All his life, Jon had tried so hard to follow his father’s example, to uphold his honour and the values Lord Stark had taught his children, even in the face of Jon’s own desires. Would he have ever left Ygritte had he not been so committed to his vows as a brother of the Night’s Watch? He’d betrayed her for men who would eventually do the same to him. Jon had been so deeply indoctrinated by the noble ideals his father espoused, when the reality was never so simple, a steady barrage of difficult choices requiring a brutal dedication to self-preservation, a trait which apparently Jon lacked.

His affair with his sister had reached a degree of selfishness that was untenable. Jon could no longer justify anything they were currently doing with each other, could no longer bear the shame of their craven desires. Listening to himself convince Hollis that there was some sort of grand nobility in hiding their secret had only hurtled him downwards into a depthless pit of despair. But more than that, to continue it meant he was putting them both at risk. It was only a matter of time before they were caught again, and the next time would likely as not be by a young, malleable boy. There were dead men and an evil king coming to destroy them all and here he was, a man chosen to lead his people, beset by madness as he was further sucked into this dangerous delusion he was sharing with Sansa. The dead children were getting bolder in the night, and Jon felt himself slowly losing his grip on his mind.

Something had to change.

There was heavy knocking on the door.

“Come in,” he called, his attention not straying from his map of the north.

“A raven, my king.” Jon heard Wolkan come in behind him, the man’s many links from his chain clinking with his movements. “From the Citadel.”

Sam.

Jon turned instantly to grab for the scroll that Wolkan had extended, unfurling it with haste in anticipation of reading some good news for once. He needed it desperately, needed to hear that Sam had found something useful, new information they could pin their hopes on.

In a glance at Sam’s fine script across the parchment, he saw one word leap out of the rest as its own announcement: _dragonglass._ He read on, his eyes flying over the scroll before re-reading it a second time to be sure. And suddenly, the knot in Jon’s chest began to loosen.

It was as if he had been drowning and Sam had just thrown him a rope, feeling that joy as though his head had broken the surface of the water. He read the letter again. Dragonglass, the very thing they’d been looking for, and there was a mountain of it. On Dragonstone. He glanced down at the map and saw it instantly, the mass of land blissfully far away from the North.

And Jon saw a way forward.

He turned to Wolkan. “Could you find me Ser Davos?”

******

“I can understand your desire for this, Jon, but are you thinking it all the way through? Your sister was right in that this could very well be a way to entrap you,” Davos advised, worry lines across his forehead. “What happens if it is?”

“It won’t be,” Jon said with utter conviction. It couldn’t be. Even though he hadn’t known the lord for very long, Tyrion had left enough of an impression that Jon could not see a situation where this particular Lannister would be party to such a deception.

“All right, fine. You don’t believe it will come to pass. But now you must sell it to your people. I expect they’ll have much to say about this decision. As vocal as your sister, I’d wager. And what did Lady Stark have to say on the matter?”

Jon sat back in his seat. They were both in his father’s solar, hours from the meet with the Northern lords. There was no benefit in telling Sansa before hand, but he recognized his inclination to want to make things easier for himself this way. The aftermath would be bad enough.

“I haven’t told her yet. She’ll hear the news with the rest of them.”

Davos looked shocked by the information. “Jon … I don’t mean to tell you your business when it comes to your family, but do you think that’s wise? You said before she wants to be allowed into these matters, and excluding her from your decision is perhaps the surest way to invite resentment. She’ll be angry that you don’t take her seriously. You heard her when you brought us Tyrion’s letter. She thinks this plan dangerous.”

“The decision isn’t up to Sansa,” Jon snapped in aggravation. Davos couldn’t possibly understand the extent of the ramifications he was going to have to contend with, but it wasn’t the man’s fault Jon was in this position. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to sound harsh. I understand your concerns and I thank you for raising them, but … it has to happen this way.” He sighed, wiping a hand across his eyes. “Besides, I think she will rather enjoy the outcome.”

“What do you mean by that?” Davos didn’t look convinced.

Jon stood up to stretch his legs, turning towards the hearth. “I plan to leave her in charge. Sansa will rule as my regent while we’re gone. She’s plenty capable and has enough strong opinions on how things should be done. I should think this will assuage any further criticisms of my leadership.”

Davos stood with him, his hands crossing at his back as he contemplated Jon’s strategy. “Aye, she can rule, but I believe that is not her concern, Your Grace. Have you considered the fact that she’s more afraid of losing _you_ than a need to be right?”

Jon exhaled a shaky breath. Davos didn’t know the half of it. “We need this, Davos. I have to be the one to go, to make sure this opportunity isn’t squandered. If there’s truly a cache of dragonsglass there, this could be our best chance for surviving what we know is coming for us. And it’s all tied to a woman with fire-breathing dragons. That has to be a portent to something good. Sansa will see reason eventually.” He put his hands to his hips, imagining the pain in Sansa’s face once he told everyone in the hall. “I need to be successful in this venture.”

Davos sighed as he regarded Jon keenly. “Aye, you definitely do. I’ll go and inform the men you want to take with us, and take care of the provisions. I hope you’re ready for this, Jon.”

* * *

Sansa was racing with quickened steps through the corridors of the Keep, her emotions like bells inside of her as they all tolled with a clashing cacophony. That Jon was leaving her in charge was a satisfying development to their relationship but didn’t make up for the fact that he was leaving at all.

 _You’re abandoning your people. You’re abandoning your home!_

He was abandoning _her_ , is what she had really wanted to yell at him, there in front of everyone. This was reckless, this idea he had trapped in his thick skull that he was the only one who could go to this queen and beg her for help. Just the mere thought of it enraged Sansa. Jon shouldn’t have to beg anyone for anything. This mission would put him at risk and yet he was determined to play with his life as if it were nothing. Sansa was equally determined not to lose him. Not only would she refuse to mourn another brother, Sansa wanted her lover to remain with her. She knew what Jon was doing. He’d confessed as much when he’d given her that nod, after declaring her regent, the understanding between them that he had to do this because of what they were to each other. And the truth of it was, she didn’t care anymore, didn’t care that they were kin. Even as half siblings, what they had was real. Jon needed her as much as she needed him.

 _You are my sister. You’re the only Stark in Winterfell._ _Until I return, the North is yours._

He was sweetening her, hoping to quash her anger, but she wouldn’t let Jon leave without knowing how he’d hurt her. Sansa took hold of the hoop at her chest, clasped around her neck by her chain, and drew strength from its meaning. The silver direwolves which jutted from under either side of her collar beat heavily against her clavicle with every step she took – a band for her neck which she’d designed shortly after Jon’s gorget had been done, wanting a piece of her own armor to wear as a connecting symbol to her brother.

She came upon his guards and didn’t even bother to look at them, her hand already outstretched to his door.

“Lady Stark!”

She swept through, dismissive of them, her fit solidly upon her and no longer able to be held in check. Storming into Jon’s room, she saw his trunk on his bed, clothes hanging half out, and crashed the door behind her.

He was waiting for her.

The stuffed chair was turned towards the door, where Jon sat in stony silence as he watched her enter his room in a fury. He wore his armor, his cape hanging by her on the wall, yet his hair was down as he leaned back comfortably against the chair’s wing, his arms on the rests, and a grim set to his jaw.

“You can’t go!” She wouldn’t waste any time arguing. Sansa couldn’t protect Jon at all if he was thousands of miles away.

“I can and I will,” he said calmly. “You know this is the right choice, Sansa.”

“You said you were the only one who can convince this queen, but what if you can’t? What if you fail and she decides to roast you with her dragons? To execute you just as Joffrey did to our father?!”

“Sansa, stop. I’ve already made up my mind. Just tell me what you came here to say.”

“You’re leaving me,” she cried. “You told me that you were sorry you weren’t here for me before. And now you’re running away. I thought we were–” She couldn’t finish, didn’t want to utter aloud what he meant to her.

Jon stared hard at her for a long moment, taking a pause before rising. “I’m not leaving you forever. I will return. But we need this alliance, and you know it.”

“Don’t tell me this is all for an alliance. I know why you’re doing this.”

“Aye, it’s part of it, you’re right. This madness between us needs to stop, Sansa. Whatever this is – it can’t go on.”

“Jon, no,” she wept, the emotion packed so tightly in her chest she couldn’t breathe. It was too horrible a thought, not having him near, to be all alone again.

He straightened his shoulders with a clearing of his throat. “I take full responsibility for this … this transgression. I should never have allowed it to happen. It was wrong of me. And for that I am heartily sorry. I don’t like what it’s done to either of us.”

“And what if I do?” she asked brazenly, her anger flaring as she drew nearer to where he stood. “I don’t need your permission on what I can feel, Jon. I’m just as responsible for what we’ve been doing. Don’t take that away from me.”

“Fine, Sansa. If that is what you wish, we’re both culpable then. But one of us has got to put an end to this and so it falls to me.”

“And how noble of you to be the one to decide this,” she sneered. “Rather than having a discussion about it. Just like with everything else, you cut me out!”

“What is there to discuss, Sansa?” he asked in horror, finally showing some emotion. “You are my sister. There’s nothing noble about any of this!” He shook his head in distress. “I can’t do it anymore. This has gone beyond anything it started out as, and now we're just using each other. I don’t even know … I don’t know what kind of man I am. I need to lead our people forward and this is all …”

“A distraction?” she spit out. “Taking you away from your cause? I’m so sorry then to have been such a burden to you,” she said, her sarcasm like boiling pitch from her mouth.

Jon was taken aback, his eyes reflecting her pain. “Sansa,” he said with a wince. He came to her then, put his hands to either side of her neck and held her, his thumb a soft press along her jaw as he spoke. “Sansa, I want you to _live_. Do you understand me? You are more important to me than anything in this world and I don’t want to see you harmed when this army comes. I’m tired of losing the people I love, too. I won’t let it happen again.”

She slipped her arms around his waist and pulled him to her in an embrace. “Jon, please. Don’t go.” She leaned over to kiss him, to take that mouth and remind him that they were meant for each other, but he pulled away from her before she could touch his lips.

“Stop.”

He spoke softly, his hands moved to the sides of her arm as he kept her apart from him. “I promise you that I’ll come back. And when I do,” he drew in a breath. “When I do, we will be brother and sister only.” Sansa let out an agonized groan, feeling the cut to her insides, but Jon continued over her protests. “Things will be as before. No more visits to my chambers at night.”

“Don’t do this,” she begged.

“And we will focus on the threat, work together to ensure our people will survive this. I will bring us an army, I swear to you.”

“I don’t want to hear about a bloody army!” she hissed. “I want _you_.”

“Sansa, listen to me. It’s not me you want. You said before that you felt powerful in what we do. Restored, in some ways. And that is a thing to rejoice in. Truly. So find other ways to channel your passion. You once told me that no one can protect anyone, yet we have to keep trying. I have to try. I owe you that. And I need you to protect the North while I am gone. Will you do that for me?”

“After all we’ve fought over, you expect me to believe that you suddenly trust me to rule in your stead?”

Jon’s forehead creased. “Of course I do. I have complete faith in you. I know you’ll do what needs to be done.”

She sighed. He was going and nothing she could say would stop him. She glanced to his bed again, seeing the trunk was halfway full. If this was to be it, he could at least give her one more night.

Sansa reached for his waist. “Jon. Let me be with you tonight. Before you’re gone in the morning. Send your guards away and the two of us can be together till the dawn. You said Hollis will keep quiet. He’ll leave us alone.”

“Sansa, no," he said firmly. "We can’t.” He put his hand over hers, and Sansa swept in closer, her arm quick to wrap around his neck.

“Yes, we can,” she whispered as she tried for another kiss, a final moment of intimacy. But Jon was stepping away again, just out of her reach. She closed her eyes to the tears welling in frustration.

“Why are you _punishing_ me?”

“I’m not. I’m trying to free you.”

Sansa snapped her eyes up, the surge of anger at his arrogance shooting to her hands as she swung one across his face. Jon barely acknowledged the slap, his eyes back on her with maddening patience.

“I know how that sounds. But it’s the truth. Being away from each other for a time … we both need this. To lessen this hold over us, this force that keeps us in its grip. It will get better, Sansa. I promise you.”

“I grow tired of your promises,” Sansa said coldly. She glanced to his bed again, before stepping away from him. “I’ll leave you to finish your packing then. Sleep well, brother.”

Sansa marched to the door, the tears threatening to come rushing at any moment. But she wouldn’t let him see her cry, wouldn’t be weak in front of him. When she left him, she didn’t even bother to look back.

* * *

Jon came up from the crypts and into the cold air, his temper subsiding as he beheld the flattening light of the early morning. His confrontation with Baelish below had only stirred more upheaval in him as he considered Sansa alone with the man. He had to trust that his sister indeed had Baelish at her heel; that she was in command of the relationship. His threat to the lord had been real, however, and he was of a mind to believe that Baelish understood it keenly. There was much bustling in the courtyard as his men gathered the horses together, mounting them for their long journey, but as he scanned the walkway above, he saw Sansa there waiting for him.

She had met with him in their father’s solar to break fast together before he left, as early as it was, with the promise to see him off. The meal had been somber and silent for the most part, the two of them unable to reach across their turbulent emotions to share even a sparse conversation of pleasantries. His sister’s face was composed yet inscrutable and Jon responded with a faint smile in the hopes that she would understand his actions in the days after his parting. He laid his hand atop hers at one point as they ate, and she had allowed it to stay. He knew that this was right, that for all of his points on the need to meet with Tyrion and the Targaryen woman, it was just as crucial for him to be separated from Sansa. He had to believe that things would be different upon his return, that they would achieve some rendering of normality with this purged from their system.

Davos sat waiting astride his horse as Jon came into the yard. His garron had been readied for him and Jon mounted and swept his cloak aside, eager to be gone from the cold and the ghosts of this place for a while. He turned behind him and saw Sansa looking down at him and his heart squeezed. Jon gave her a small wave and attempted a smile, a parting gesture to remind her that he loved her. She raised a hand to wave back, the barest hint of a smile returned, and for a moment, Jon saw himself, standing on the landing of Castle Black as he waved goodbye to Sam, his friend’s departure a mighty blow. He had been left to his fate there. Jon sucked in a breath, hoping that he hadn’t made another mistake.

Turning in his seat, he tapped his heels in his stirrups, goading his horse to a full gallop as Davos and his men filed behind him.

Jon rode hard through the gate, his thoughts already on the journey ahead.


	18. II: Dragonstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one. Still more dialogue credited to Cogman from 7X02. Also, a line from GRRM, if you think you can spot it.  
> UPDATE!! 12/6 - Thank you so much to mimreads, for this beautiful piece of artwork. Everything you wanted boatsex to be. I can't look away, its so gorgeous.
> 
> tw: for self-harm, and some violence

**.xviii**

Petyr watched her pace.

They were in her brother’s office. Sansa had been struggling with the news Petyr had given her for the last twenty minutes, shining the stones with her boot heels as she walked back and forth wringing her hands.

“And you’re sure your man sent this two days past? What did Jon do, fly there? White Harbor is at least a fortnight’s slog with the snows. It’s more than a hundred leagues. How the bloody hell did he and his guard board their ship already?”

“The sighting came from a trusted source, my lady. If he says he saw the king board, then he did. Apparently, they didn’t even stay the night at the inn, but went straight to port.” Petyr shrugged his shoulders. “I imagine your brother is eager to snare the winds for their sails and make good time. He couldn’t even wait a day for Lord Manderly to journey with him.”

“Well, the man would only slow Jon down, if you’ve ever seen him ride his horse. I’m the one who convinced him to stay longer for some rest. White Harbor is no two day jaunt, way too long of a trip for all of this sallying to and fro.”

“Of course you did, my dear. The lords of the North speak highly of your generosity. As they speak of your wisdom. After all, most of your vassals agreed with you, that the king should not have left for this mission.”

“Jon does what Jon wants,” she huffed, a bruised tenderness in the criticism.

Petyr had his back slunk against the wall, but he straightened at her exasperated response, walking closer to where she stood with her fists pressed to the desk, head bent in thought. She was still upset by her brother’s departure. He’d watched her closely when Snow made his announcement, had seen Sansa’s shock at the bastard leaving her in charge instantly switch to acceptance, the pleased flash in her eyes not escaping his notice from across the room, any further objections silenced.

But it had been a passing moment. There was something else happening, he could detect it in her bearing over the last twelve days since Snow had left with his party. As quickly as she’d adapted to her role, Petyr found her in a brittle state, her rejoinders to him growing ever more cutting. Her confidence had only grown since her return to Winterfell and Petyr was keen to see her continued rise into a leader, but her frequent hostility towards him was a cause for concern. She was troubled, that much was obvious. Petyr had paid handsomely to get ears around her handmaidens, to acquire any more information that might account for her moods. He knew she hadn’t been eating much lately, one of her girls had complained about it to the cook.

“The sooner he gets to Dragonstone then likely the sooner he will return. Isn’t that what you want, Sansa?”

She snapped up her head and stared at him, her expression hard. “Do I want my brother to return home quickly? Yes, of course, I do. The Stark men traditionally don’t do very well in the south. As you can surely attest, Lord Baelish.”

“Indeed I can, my lady,” he said with a curt nod of his head. “However, your brother has not been south since his birth, I take it? And now he returns as a king. Perhaps he feels the need to make a name for himself beyond the North. To have all of Westeros know more about this King who was chosen.”

Sansa gave him a withering look. “You don’t know Jon at all, do you?”

“Not for lack of trying, my lady.”

He’d certainly given it his best effort. Spotting the last likely opportunity he’d have to speak to him alone for many moons, he’d managed to corner the bastard the morning of his departure. It had been a curious – and quite violent – encounter.

Petyr had slipped down into the cavern below the castle as soon as he saw that Snow had gone to pay his respects in the crypts. He had found him in front of his dead father’s statue, not quite in prayer but sharing a farewell of sorts with Ned before running off to make the same mistake, Petyr assumed.

“I delivered his bones myself. Presented them to Lady Catelyn as a gesture of goodwill from Tyrion Lannister. It seems like a lifetime ago. Do give Lord Tyrion my best when you see him,” he’d said, walking up to Snow under the light of the torches.

They were both stood before Ned Stark’s effigy and Petyr had expected a carefully constrained retort, but was met with silence.

“I was sorry when he died,” he’d continued, ignoring the slight. “Your father and I had our differences but he loved Cat very much.” Petyr had turned to the bastard then, hoping to curry favor in his words. “So did I. She wasn’t fond of you, was she?” Snow had only kept his eyes to his father’s likeness, his expression shuttered. “Well, it appears she vastly underestimated you. Your father and brothers are gone, yet here you stand, the King in the North. Last best hope against the coming storm.”

Petyr caught Snow sliding a poisonous glance to him before finally speaking. “You don’t belong down here,” he’d said with an acrimonious smile.

It was quite a different charge than when Petyr had spoken to Sansa in the Starks’ sacred place. For a moment, Petyr had worried he’d overplayed his hand. “Forgive me. We have never talked … properly. I wanted to remedy that.”

“I have nothing to say to you.” Snow had started to walk away, ready to leave, and Petyr’s back went up, incensed by his inability to get this Stark bastard under his thumb.

“Not even thank you?” He’d dug the blade in deeper. “If it weren’t for me you’d have been slaughtered on that battlefield. You have many enemies, my king, but I swear to you I’m not one of them.”

The bastard had refused to even turn around to look at him but stood frozen; Petyr saw him breathing hard with the rise of his shoulders. He’d wanted Snow to understand, to be reminded who exactly had shaped Sansa into the woman she was now.

“I love Sansa. As I loved her mother.”

And then an explosion of anger, knocking Petyr back against the stone with the force of it, and there he’d been shocked to see history replayed, finding the hand around his throat squeezed tight as Ned Stark’s son choked him against the crypt wall. Petyr hadn’t been prepared for such hatred, hadn’t expected the rumbling threat coming from the bastard king’s mouth.

“Touch my sister, and I’ll kill you myself.”

Even now, a shiver ran up his back to think on it.

Sansa turned away from him, rubbing her gloves down across her knuckles as she surveyed the maps spread across the table. “If he’s advanced four days ahead of schedule, and the winds are strong, then he could feasibly be at Dragonstone in less than a fortnight. But what happens when he gets there is the bigger question. What does this queen have in mind for my brother, Lord Baelish?”

“I do not know, my lady, but we will discover it soon enough.”

Her head shot up again, but this time her glare was white hot while her voice dropped in temperature. “What use are you if you can’t even get me the information I seek? Jon needs to return home safely, do you understand?”

“I think you’ve made that exceptionally clear. I, of course, remain at your service, my dear, and will endeavor to do all that I can to make this need of yours a reality.”

She seemed temporarily appeased and returned to her pacing, but Petyr was once again intrigued by these heightened emotions in Sansa. Her acute concern for her bastard brother, combined with Snow’s reaction in the crypts, seemed to highlight a bond beyond that of a mere need to protect one’s sibling. While Petyr sensed something else at work, he still hadn’t managed to discern the nature of it. Why was Sansa so devoted to him?

The parallels between Snow and his father came to mind. Ned had carried himself with a certain humble declaration – and every thought and impulse writ upon his features. Petyr had initially thought the same of his bastard, but perhaps he’d been too hasty in his assumptions. The resemblance was there and Snow most assuredly drew upon it, presenting such a striking image of another, younger iteration of Ned. It had made an impression on the Northerners so effectively they’d crowned him a king. That Snow might have done so intentionally was an interesting idea.

Sansa had witnessed her father’s beheading, had suffered through the news of her eldest brother’s grisly end – Petyr couldn’t even let his mind go to what happened to his beloved Catelyn – and had watched her youngest kin be brought down on the battlefield. It stood to reason that she would cling to the bastard with such a tight grip now, would fear losing another brother, even if they frequently clashed. And to have one so mimicking her father in manner and deed – did this contribute to her feelings of protectiveness? There were too many other pieces to this enigma that he could scarce come up with a satisfying answer. He thought again of that night on the battlements, the strange conversation the half-siblings had shared.

Discovering that Sansa was not with child when he came to her outside of Castle Black had been good news. It was something that Petyr had feared but deemed a necessary risk. Yet hearing her allude to what was surely moon tea on that night had sparked a fleeting shame in him. His beautiful Sansa befouled by that Bolton boy was something he’d not wanted to look upon, and he’d been quick to put it to the back of his mind. Even still, the stories he’d heard since coming to Winterfell had only pressed upon him that he was lucky to have her speaking with him at all and he had to proceed cautiously. Perhaps Snow had heard them first hand. That Sansa had shared with him just what Bolton had done. Such a confession would surely incite strong feelings in her big brother. Why would he leave her then? The questions went round and round his head like a seagull over the city’s garbage.

“I’ve yet to receive a raven from him,” she suddenly revealed, not quite able to mask the misery it brought her as her eyes went back to his maps.

Petyr perked up.

“I wonder if the king ever considered having you accompany him.” He reached out to touch one of the book covers at the corner of a table, brushing fingers across its gilded script while surreptitiously noting her reaction. “As you once did when campaigning the Northern lords to rally against the Boltons.”

Sansa stared unblinking at the desk as she answered. “You imagined that he would?”

“Perhaps you could have been his emissary, as you yourself suggested. A powerful voice to represent the newly crowned king of the North. As well as the former wife of the Lannister who now stands beside Daenerys as her Hand. But he left you here, instead. To rule in his absence.”

She sighed. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. I doubt it ever crossed his mind on either counts.”

“Odd that your brother hasn’t legitimized himself in his first act as king.”

She glanced to him, with a tip of her head. “Jon doesn’t think like that. It would be too … too selfish of him. Or at least, that’s how he would perceive it. That’s not where his attention lies.”

Petyr saw an opening. “And where does it lie? Aside from girding the country from calamity. What does your brother seek, if not glory?”

Sansa shook her head, her mouth a flat line. “Now you think my brother vainglorious? You really do have little understanding of what motivates Jon, Lord Baelish. He has no vanity, nor a need to tout his achievements. Surely you’ve been able to glean that much from your interactions with him?” She faced him fully. “He’s not going to Dragonstone to puff up his chest and inform this Queen of the East that he’s someone to be noticed. That’s not who he is. Plus,” she waved a hand at the air, “she’s the one who reached out to him. People of Westeros know who my brother is already, Lord Baelish. House Stark is not finished yet.”

“No, not while Ned Stark’s daughter rules.”

She rolled her eyes. “If you’re trying to suggest that Jon isn’t a Stark, find another note to play. I’ve been both a Bolton and a Lannister, and yet I’ve never stopped being a Stark. Jon is every bit a part of this family. Even more so, as he leads us forward.”

Petyr came closer to her, reaching out a hand to clasp the side of her head. “Sansa,” he rasped. Something dark flashed in her eyes and he retracted it after a moment, his gaze sweeping over her as he took a slight step back, giving her some space.

“You care for your brother; that is plain. Your devotion is admirable, my lady. But you have an opportunity here, while he is off across the seas to find aid for the North. Speak to your vassals. Let them understand that you have as much power as the king. That you were the one who liberated the north from the Boltons. They look for assurances, and your brother gives them none.”

“You mean Jon doesn’t give them false hope. He’s being a realist. Just because he doesn’t drown the truth in honey doesn’t mean he’s ignorant of their needs to have a pat on the head, and a cheery speech that all will be well.”

“So he knows his decision is unpopular. I believe he has some history with that.”

Sansa froze, her eyes widening.

“What are you saying?”

He remembered that Sansa herself had seen the bastard’s wounds; she’d been adamant about it, and wondered not for the first time how that might have come to be.

“Your brother went through an experience that none of us will ever know. Do you not entertain the notion that it may have changed him? That it might drive him even now. How could it not? Perhaps he’d not been ready for battle when you came to him. He’d just been murdered. When we arrived and I found you at camp, things were not looking good for him or his army, were they? Is it possible that his failures reflected his state of mind? What does that portend for the North’s future, I wonder?”

It landed in her with a quiet thud, he could see. Her face was ashen and she quickly turned away from him, strolling up to the desk as she reached for its edge with a shaky hand.

“I suddenly recall I have some letters to write, Lord Baelish. If you would be so kind, I think I have need of some solitude for the afternoon.”

Petyr bowed his head. “Of course, my lady. You’re a busy woman. I will take my leave.”

He left her then, but not before turning back, catching Sansa staring out of the window with a gloss to her eyes.

Petyr closed the door behind him, his thoughts on the bastard once more.

* * *

The ship rocked again, groaning into a long, plunging tilt towards the bow before righting itself on the choppy sea.

Jon stood portside, hands gripping the beam in front of him as he stared out across the water, his eyes on the horizon and his stomach plummeting from the violent motion. He’d only been on a ship a few times before, and neither voyage had been pleasant, but this one was filled with so much apprehension and turmoil that the last five days had slipped by in something of a grim blur.

The trek to White Harbor had been even more of a trial, the days rapidly bleeding into each other as Jon forced himself to function, focused on the riding, eyes forward while letting Davos take over in directing the men. He didn’t want to think, he didn’t want to feel, he just wanted to be on the ocean and heading towards a possibility, the glimmer of hope the only thing sustaining him.

Arriving at White Harbor, he knew the men were weary but he’d been eager to get on the caravel Lord Manderly had sequestered for them and be on their way. The captain had shoved them off on a midnight launch and Jon had lain awake in his bed watching his room sway with the waves, the turbulence a companion to the roiling emotions that he felt within him.

Once they were on the seas, Davos had been at home, the most relaxed he’d ever seen the man as they greeted the morning, and he left him to put his men to work with the few relegated as their crew. But for Jon, the horizon beckoned him, suggested a faraway place where he might disappear, and he’d spent hours topside just watching it, the wind rushing through his hair with a wildness that matched Jon’s need to be on with it, to get to the end of this fight and realize his purpose. The farther away he was from Sansa, the stronger his destiny seemed to delineate in his mind.

He saw the Night King’s face every night now.

The being’s taunt had clearly evolved into an invitation. Jon questioned every day why he was returned, why any god would bring him back to watch this sick play unfold where he corrupted his sister night after night. Why his lust had been allowed to resurface so it could ruin what little he had left of a family. And the only answer he could understand was that he still had a role to play in this battle. That he would be able to give this wretched life back with a final encounter. There had to be a reason for him to draw breath. He thought often of Melisandre’s words, that he was here to fulfill a small part of her god’s plan. And if that were true, surely it meant he would give his life to take down such evil. That he could spare Sansa and everyone in the north a terrible fate by facing it himself. It was all Jon had to hold on to.

The nights were getting harder to bear.

At first he simply lay awake in restless thought, images of Sansa underneath him, on top of him, the feel of her mouth, of her breasts, an incessant reminder, and his cock hard at the end of it all, so used to being touched now as if he’d never belonged to an order that had trained him to deny that part of himself. He’d taken himself in hand, feeling further damned as he fantasized that she was with him, that it was her hand, that he could hear her breaths in his ear. It was shameful, to be using his sister even hundreds of miles away from her, and in the end he’d put his cock away and gone stomping around the ship to walk off the churning need that ate at him. Standing starboard to stare at the waning moon, a bright crescent over the black water but for the sliver of light that rippled towards him, Jon had wondered again what manner of man was he. He’d looked into the faces of the Others – those that still had faces – and had seen nothing in those blue eyes, no reason, no spirit, nothing to indicate any thought at all beyond a mindless urge to kill. Jon had come back as they had but he knew he wasn’t mindless, that he could still discern good from bad. And he knew what he had been doing with Sansa was bad. Yet he had done it anyway. It was hardly an action he could consign to happenstance; he’d made that choice. There was no excuse for it.

But then the next night he’d slipped into his dream state, those periods when he didn’t know if he was awake or asleep. He’d been at his desk back at Castle Black. He smelled the candle’s smoke, felt the solid backing of his chair, saw the cluster of scrolls with their angry denouncements at what he had done. And Olly was before him, telling him that Uncle Benjen had been found, and Jon had felt himself rushing towards it, a warning shout in the back of his mind to stop, to not go down there, but he had, he’d run like a fool right up to their sign, their smear and condemnation of him. Jon had turned around, like he had a hundred times in these dreams, and felt the first stab wound all over again.

Ser Alliser, so steady and righteous, had looked down upon him with an almost pleasant smile. _For the Starks_ , he said this time. Then the men came, one by one, the searing pain as they stabbed him again and again vividly real, and the cold that permeated his body an ossifying agent that hardened him, inured him to this punishing wave. He deserved it, after all. _Sister fucker_ , they whispered, the blades like fire in his gut. _Sick fucking bastard,_ they swore, and Jon agreed, so he stood there as more knives stuck into him.

And then they’d parted. Jon felt the sinking despair, the shame overwhelm him so deeply it lodged in his throat until he couldn’t breathe. His father had come forward, the men standing back with some awe. _Father_ , he’d tried to speak, he was so sorry, so so sorry. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. _You fucked my daughter?_ And his father’s rage was terrible to behold. Jon felt the blade puncture his lungs, and then again, a rip into his heart. _Father_ , he’d begged. _I’m sorry_. But Lord Stark had only stabbed him again, kept stabbing repeatedly, relentlessly, faster and faster, until Jon had started to scream, feeling the wounds in his body as one gaping hole, his father plunging his knife deeper each time, and Jon felt his belly rip wide, his entrails falling to the floor, his heart in tatters, and his father’s face, teeth bared, so angry and sickened. Jon felt himself being torn apart, a gutting, exhuming sensation, and his mouth opened wide as he screamed and screamed.

“No!”

Jon had sat up in his bed with a start, his cabin instantly back into focus. His eyes felt stretched from the strain of his horror, his body shaking violently from the assault yet still able to feel the knives, and the men’s whispers lingering in the shadows until he heard them change, heard them susurrate into those scurrying noises, even here. He’d glanced to the floor and saw they’d followed him, the children aping a gleeful giddiness as they scattered, bent over like rats, his floor moving with them, and Jon watching them rise from the pile and crawl up his walls, his terror so complete he felt blasted into incomprehension. And then that face, its crown of icy thorns, appearing from the corner of his cabin as it raised his hands and grinned at Jon, the children scurrying to him, their hisses turning to murmurs. _You fucked her._

His breathing came harsh and fast, and he scanned the room for anything solid, anything to quell the noises and beat back the wraiths. And then his sight had landed on Longclaw propped against a chair. Jon had kept his attention on his sword, ignoring the children, sliding out of his bed and reaching for it until he could lay it across his lap, swiftly uncoiling the belt from his scabbard. He pulled the leather into his grip with shaking hands, eyeing the metal grommets and the silver tip at the end of its tongue greedily. Jon had pulled off his nightshirt and sat naked, belt in hand, needing something to hold him here, to quiet his mind before it turned him mad. At first he had wrapped it around his throat, sliding it through its buckle and tightening it until it pinched at his skin, the air in his lungs interrupted and his cock hardening. His face felt hot and bloated as he squeezed, but it didn’t work, it wasn’t working, and with a growing frustration, Jon had stood up and rested his foot to the edge of the chair, stabilizing his balance so he could fold over the belt once, then twice, shortening its length. His thigh was pale and white in the dark, an offering, and without much thought, Jon brought down the belt’s silver tip against his flesh. He felt it before he heard the snap of leather echo in his room, a quick blast of fire that spread its warmth up his leg and deadened the rest of him. He did it again. And again. His focus on nothing but the pain in his body, everything else blissfully falling away, the repetition of the slaps on his thigh drowning out the room’s whispers.

At some point, he’d turned the belt around, using the buckle to viciously tear open the skin, its heaviness from the iron bruising him with great satisfaction while the prong sliced a line that eventually began to drip. Jon didn’t know how long he’d been at it, his thoughts utterly blank, but as the feel of blood trickling down the back of his knee began to penetrate his consciousness, Jon stopped with a great and heavy sigh. His arm ached, his leg was on fire, but there was a strange settling in him, one not quite of contentment, yet somehow calm and sanguine, a reshuffling of everything put back to rights. He’d found an old shirt to tear into strips and had wrapped it around his bleeding thigh, tying the end of it tightly into a knot. Climbing back into his rocking bed, Jon felt in control of himself again, the only sound that of the waves outside and the creaking of the ship. He’d managed some rest after that, slipping into blackness, and when he arose for the morning, it had been with a resigned fortitude towards the day. He could get through it with enough determination.

The last few nights had been more of the same.

Jon heard footsteps behind him.

“Mornin’ to ye, Your Grace.”

He glanced over his shoulder to see Davos striding up behind him, his arms at his back. “Looking fine out there, today. Nice to see the sun again, eh? I’d almost forgotten what it looked like, fully blazin’.” The older man clapped him on the back. “And how are you faring, Jon?”

“Me? I’m fine,” he said, turning back to the water as he leaned on the boat’s edge with one arm lying over the other. “How are the men doing? They seemed quite raucous last night.”

“Aye. Twas a long, hard ride. Nothing rocks a man into the ever lovin’ arms of his slumber better than the sea, Your Grace. It’s like returning to the cradle as a babe, hearing your mother croonin’ over ye. They were rejuvenated.”

Jon grinned. “I’m glad that’s the case for some. I don’t know that I have my sea legs just yet.”

Davos gave him a strange look before nodding. “Give it a few more days, and you’ll be doing alright.” He came up to lean on the edge next to Jon. “Unlike our horses, you won’t be able to push this boat any faster than the breeze’ll let you, I’m afraid. We’ve got another week and some days before we get there. The captain’s not making any stops along the way, so you’ll have your meet soon enough.”

Jon looked down at the water, seeing their shadows wavering on the emerald green surface below them, while schools of fish darted underneath. He knew he had pushed everyone exhaustively to get to their destination.

“Sorry we couldn’t have stayed a night or two in White Harbor. I know I was asking a lot.”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself about it, Jon. I know you’re concerned about the time we’ve got to make this happen. Besides, if Winterfell is the heart of the north, then White Harbor is its mouth. And quite a foul mouth it is. Little Gabe’s already swearing up a storm and we were only there for a few hours.”

Jon chuckled at the truth of the statement. He’d heard an earful of it the night before during supper, their boisterous remarks rising in pitch over the course of the evening as the ale flowed.

But Davos grew somber. “Eh, they’re just scared. Worried about their families, and what this storm coming will mean for them. It feels different here, on the water. Like all of its happening on the other side of the world, and yet here we are, mucking about in the sun having a laugh. It’s a good feeling, but they know it won’t last long. They just want to revel in it.” He tipped his head to take in Jon. “And what of you, Jon?

“Aye, I’m scared, too. I have to believe this is the right move, that … that I haven’t fucked it all.” He turned to look at Davos with a sigh. “And I worry about my family as well.”

Davos nodded. “Your sister’s a strong woman. I suspect she’ll take to her duties like a duck to water. The Northern lords have a lot of respect for her, and her words.”

“More than mine?” he asked with a wry smile. He sensed Davos’s concern.

“That’s for another discussion, Jon. I didn’t mean to bring up your bannermen. I know … I know things haven’t been easy for you and Lady Stark. That _debehtin’_ every little thing has become the way of it between you two. But she loves you fiercely. All of us can see it. She wants to protect you as much as you do her.”

His skin flushed warm at the remark, cheeks tingling, with the knowledge that Davos hadn’t any idea just how close to the truth of it he was.

Sansa’s face at that last confrontation appeared before him. _I thought we were …_ He had realized her confusion and her need so clearly and in that split second, for one horrible moment, he’d wanted to be cruel. Had wanted to expose her imaginings for what they were. That she had thought them in love. And Jon had wanted to shatter that notion into a thousand pieces. It shamed him now. He had done that to her. All Sansa had asked for was someone to care for her.

“My sister … my sister will understand eventually. She spent too many years in the capital, surrounded by deceivers. And now that she’s back home, she seeks to wall up the North on all sides, keep those who would do us harm on the other side of it. I understand it, and it’s admirable, her desire to keep her people safe, but I’ve been on the other side of that Wall. Trust has to begin somewhere.”

He turned to study Davos again, wondering about the man’s own experiences. “What of you, Ser Davos? You speak of family, but when was the last time you were home? When did you last see your wife’s face?”

Davos raised an eyebrow. “Seven hells, that’s a good question.” He frowned in thought. “I suppose it’s been five years. Give or take a moon.” He looked out over the water, his expression troubled. “It wasn’t a happy reunion the last time I saw Marya. Our youngest son was dead. I felt responsible. I couldn’t even bring her a body to bury. Matthos … Matthos was a good lad, a good son, but he followed me into battle and I couldn’t save him. His brothers mourned. His mother was inconsolable.” He flicked his eyes to Jon, his grief a light there. “It’s a hard thing, for a man and woman to go on, with their dead child between them. I returned to Stannis. And then it became one thing after another, no time to slow down and think on any of it.”

Jon nodded in agreement. He understood that.

“Sometimes it’s better that way,” he commented. “To simply … move forward.”

“Is that what you’re doing, Jon?”

He was surprised by the question. “I suppose. Yes. We have to keep looking outward, gain support where we can.”

“No, I don’t mean as a king. I mean, you.”

Jon frowned, straightening up to stand stiffly in front of him. “What are you asking me, Davos?”

The knight scanned his eyes across the ocean again, preparing his words. When he looked back at Jon it was with empathy and uncertainty warring in his features.

“Jon, I feel that I … well, that I owe you an apology.”

Jon was immediately on guard from such a statement, and he narrowed his eyes. “For what?”

Davos let out a long sigh. “I didn’t think. I just acted. I never took into consideration what it would do to a man, how he might feel after.” He shrugged with some sheepishness. “When you were killed, Jon, I remember running down those steps, seeing you lying there in the snow, knowing in my bones you were dead already.”

A sudden embarrassment washed over Jon, the failure of that night and his recent nightmares merging together and turning his body cold.

“I stood over you, saw you cold and lifeless, your body still bleedin’ out, and I remember thinking _, ‘What a waste’_. What a _fucking,_ bloody waste. I felt angry. Tired of seeing good men fall. Stannis had seen something in you, I told you back then. And gaining the respect of Stannis Baratheon was no easy feat, mind you, reserved for only the best of us. But the Lady Melisandre had seen something, too. I saw the way she looked at you. Had seen that look before, knew what it meant. That you were destined for something. And so I talked her into it. I thought, if its meant to be, if this man is meant to lead us, then her Lord of Light will make it happen.”

He shook his head sadly at Jon. “But its not like waking up, is it? You died. And now you have to live with that. Going on, as if it wouldn’t change you completely. I told you to move forward when you came out of it, when your heart could beat again. To keep fightin’ and do what you can. I still believe that, I do. But I shouldn’t ever have made that choice for you. And for that, I’m truly sorry, Jon.”

Jon felt airless, not knowing how to respond as his chest turned leaden. He felt tears prick his eyes and he closed them quickly, disgusted with himself as he shook his head back at Davos, something finally breaking through the pinhole in his throat.

“Davos, it’s fine. You didn’t … you couldn’t exactly ask me first, could you?” he choked through a strangled laugh, trying to lighten the bleakness he felt.

“ _Noh_. I couldn’t. And I can’t take it back.”

“I never thanked you. That was wrong of me. You made a choice which gave me back my life. I don’t want you to think that you did anything wrong, Davos. I’m sorry if I didn’t … if I don’t act grateful. That was never my intention.”

Davos nodded grimly, but turned away again, and Jon could see him struggling to say more, yet hoping that he wouldn’t.

“Jon –”

The man took a steadying breath, his gaze on what remained of his fingers as it sat on the ship’s edge. When he looked back up, Jon squared his shoulders, tried to prepare for whatever sobering message his advisor was about to share.

“Jon, it’s a fine ship we’re on. A beauty. But like most ships, the cabins below are small and the walls are thin.”

As it dawned on Jon what Davos was referring to, a prickle of heat ran up his back, a lump of ice in his belly, his face hot with the shame and his arms itching with it, a great wave of it dumping over Jon until he thought he might throw himself overboard to be spared this shining light on his depravity and his weakness. His head whipped forward, towards the sea, his eyes on the horizon still there like an invitation, a promise to hide him away.

“Oh,” he croaked, trying to collect himself before he threw up. “I – I wouldn’t presume to understand what you …” He stopped speaking, watching the water surge and settle, his thoughts crashing like waves breaking the shoreline. He had to breathe. He had to pull himself together.

A hand gripped his shoulder. “Son, it’s all right. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. But I know you’re struggling. I can’t even begin to imagine what the weight must feel like on your shoulders.”

“I’m fine, Davos.” He dropped his shoulder, trying to shrug the man off as anger shot through him. This was his private business. “The weight comes with the title. I’m used to it. I know what it takes to lead.”

“Aye, you do. But you’re not any man, Jon. Stannis believed he was the one true king, he felt it his calling, his destiny. Hell, I believed in it, too. I told Matthos that Stannis was the only god I needed. But he burned his own daughter because he believed too much. I know you’re not that kind of man, Jon. Just don’t let yourself be swallowed up by the darkness. Look around to the people who love you, who want to help you. We’re here because we believe in a good man, a just man. Those men down in the hold, they’ll die protecting you, if need be. You don’t have to carry the load all on your own.”

Davos leaned down to try and meet Jon’s eyes, but Jon sucked in a breath and watched the waves, felt the boat rock, his sight on the sun until his eyes burned white. His thigh throbbed with the outcry at having been found out, the bandage still wrapped around it and featuring the bloom of another night’s bloodletting.

“It helps,” he admitted, without explaining further. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing. I’m sorry I woke you. It won’t happen again.”

Jon turned away then, afraid to look at Davos, afraid that the man might see something in his eyes. He stalked towards the hatch to make his way below deck.

“Jon! Wait!” Davos called, but Jon was already running down the stairs.

* * *

“Jon! Please.”

Sansa bit her lip to shut herself up, her hand still working as fingers plunged in and out of her, thoughts of Jon doing this – of his tongue and his teeth on her, attached to a nipple, thrusting in her until she wept – brought her closer to her climax.

She’d taken off her nightdress, and was splayed naked across her covers, wanting to feel a dangerous thrill in doing such a shameless thing, knowing that Jon would probably balk at this behavior. She imagined him chastising her. Rolling her over and smacking her bum. Sliding his tongue deep into her cunt.

“Oh!”

The pleasure spread through her, at all points, and Sansa dropped to her bed and sighed with it, the utter contentment she normally derived from this not nearly as potent in this orgasm. She wanted the feel of Jon’s body on top of hers. It wasn’t enough to simply have her release. She wanted her brother to hold her in his arms and kiss down her back, to look in her face with those searching eyes, so soulful and caring. She wanted to hit him, to take her anger and give it a place to go.

Sansa sat up quickly, reaching for her nightgown to slide it over her head. She wriggled it down her body and got up to walk over to her basin. As she stood before it, hiking her gown up with one hand while she wet a rag with the other, Sansa thought of Jon again, wiping the slick from between her legs and dumping it in the bowl as she imagined him on the seas, wondered what he was doing for most of his days as they sailed for Dragonstone. Unlike her, Jon hadn’t sailed much at all, and for a brief moment, she thought of what it might have been like for them to have sailed together, to have arrived to see this queen as the last of House Stark, just as Littlefinger had intimated.

Of course, she had no desire to leave the North ever again, if at all possible. All of the places she’d been to had only become locations for another avenue of terror, another setting where she could be threatened. She could do more from their stronghold in Winterfell than she could somewhere open and exposed, vulnerable to outside forces. Sansa was reminded that she needed to go over some details with Lord Royce on the many visiting blacksmiths from all of the other houses. Without Jon here, she had to learn more about the shields and armor required for the upcoming battle to make sure they had proper fittings for their soldiers. Maester Wolkan had been a lot of help, and now that she had a better understanding of the man, her initial contempt had dwindled down to a middling respect. He had feared the Boltons as much as any other, she knew, and to continue to blame him for her misfortunes was no longer satisfying.

But for Jon, it was another story. Her anger hadn’t subsided, even if her body cried out for him every night he’d been gone. It was better to stay angry, she reasoned. When she lay in her bed at night, knowing she couldn’t visit him, if her thoughts conjured his face the way he looked before he left, if they reflected on Jon’s words too much, her heart would feel as though it were ripping open and she couldn’t stand it, didn’t want to feel helpless again.

No, it was better to focus on her responsibilities. Jon left her with so many projects to complete, so many teams that needed direction, and employing many of the lords at her disposal in the pursuit of their preparedness became a challenge all its own. She enjoyed that part, telling people what to do. It came easily enough, and she had many smart people around her to draw upon.

And the smartest of them all, she would watch very carefully. Littlefinger had seen an opening and hustled to insert himself, she could spot that much. He sought to regain a hold on her, with Jon out of his way, following her around whenever she let him, offering up his advice on any matter which came up with so many veiled barbs towards Jon that it annoyed her, as if she were too stupid to notice what he was doing. But she was no man’s prey any longer. She was as watchful as Ghost. And would be as fierce.

The thought of her brother’s direwolf made her wonder where he’d been keeping to. Jon’s bedchambers were locked up, she had the key, but Ghost hadn’t been seen in the castle for several days. He’d been restless and difficult the first few nights after Jon’s departure and had stayed out hunting most nights since then. She wanted to find him. He was the closest thing she had to fill in for Jon’s presence. Just having him in her room before the hearth would soothe her. Then she could concentrate more readily on how angry she was with her brother, and imagine conversations where this time she’d make him stay.

Sansa went to put on her robe and slippers. She would look for Ghost and bring him back with her. She needed some sleep, after all. There was still much work to be done, and tomorrow was another day. Another day where Jon gained closer to his destination. Another day closer to returning to her.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, hope all of you are safe, and to my US brothers and sisters, stay strong. In the words of the inimitable Chuck D, fight the power, y'all.
> 
> tw: choking and suicidal ideation.

**.xix**

“Lady Sansa!”

Sansa dragged her attention away from Littlefinger and his nonsense as he sought to mesmerize her with his lofty talk. _Everyone is your enemy, everyone is your friend_. What exactly was she supposed to do with that kind of advice? Her eyes went to the guard calling her from the archway, happy for the interruption.

“At the gate.”

The guard’s worried expression had Sansa alarmed, but she sped after him as he led her to the East gate, through the courtyard where the townsfolk were gathering quickly as people stopped their tasks to come and take a look at the visitors who’d arrived. A cart sat in the center of the cluster, and there in the back reclined a young man. She could see he was covered in furs, but his face was still turned away from her. Something hopeful suddenly fluttered in her belly and as Sansa rounded the yard with the rest of them, she came to stand before the guest, was finally able to lay her eyes on him fully.

She gasped.

Sansa stood frozen staring at the boy. But he wasn’t really a boy any longer. The years had seen him grow tall and lanky, his hair short and dark, yet Sansa recognized his face even now. When she’d last seen him, he’d been in a deep sleep, unable to wake as his body lay broken. And now here he was, her baby brother, alive as a young man. She waited for a confirmation, for some word or gesture to signal that this was Bran, absolutely. He turned to her.

“Hello, Sansa.”

Sansa surged forth, throwing her arms around him. She felt a sudden rush of emotion remembering doing this with Jon, when the two of them had flung into each other’s arms at Castle Black. But Bran sat stiffly, not bothering to hug her back at all. Sansa held him, her mind trying to catch up with the news. This was Bran. She had two brothers returned to her.

The crowd started to gasp, too, as the news traveled amongst them that little Brandon Stark had returned home. People came closer, a few older women reaching out to touch him. A young girl with curly brown hair stood next to the cart, dressed as her brother was, and she smiled shyly at Sansa once she was able to pull away.

“Hello.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Sansa exclaimed, wiping away the tears on her cheeks. “Forgive my manners. I’m Sansa Stark. I can never repay you enough for bringing my brother back to me, back to us here. Thank you so much,” she said as she grasped Bran’s hand and held it tight. He let it hang there in her clutch as he watched her.

“I’m Meera Reed. Daughter of Howland Reed. It’s been a long journey, Lady Stark, but we’re so happy to have made it.” The girl looked fondly towards Bran. “So happy to be home. Right, Bran?” she prompted.

“Yes,” Bran replied, his tone flat and undisturbed as he took in the surroundings. “It looks the same.”

“Howland Reed?” Sansa echoed. “My father spoke of your father highly. He said he owed him his life. You’re of course welcome to stay here however long you’d like.” She glanced at them both. “You must be exhausted. Please, let’s get you inside and tended to.” She looked to the servants who’d gathered behind her. “Celia, go tell Stefon to prepare some food for Lord Stark and Lady Reed. Tylar, prepare my brother’s room for him and see to Lady Reed’s comfort. And get Maester Wolkan for me, please.”

“It’s all right, Sansa. He’ll know soon.” Bran spoke suddenly, his eyes scanning the covered bridge. Sansa followed his gaze and saw Littlefinger watching them all from his perch.

“I need to go to the godswood,” he said, and Sansa grabbed for his hand again.

“Bran, the godswood isn’t going anywhere, it can wait a bit. We’ll get you fed first. And you’ll both be wanting a bath. I’ll have the girls fetch you some clothes.” She glanced to Meera again. “Surely you want your friend to have a chance to get her bearings. Where did you even – ” She had so many questions for Bran she didn’t even know where to start. If Jon had been here, he would have scooped Bran up in his arms already. He would be so overjoyed to hear the news and Sansa was eager to have another chance to write to him.

“I’d love a bath, thank you,” Meera said, with a small exhalation of breath, her eyes warm.

“Well of course you would.” Sansa turned around to the crowd. “My brother, Brandon Stark, has returned to Winterfell!” she cried. The townsfolk cheered, many of them finally coming close enough to reach out to Bran and touch him, welcoming him back with heartfelt words, the men taking turns shaking his hand. Bran sat through it all steadfast, his expression blank, and the hope that had sprung into Sansa’s center simmered into a curious disquieting vibration. His reticent nature only foreshadowed a terrible tale of woe. Sansa could understand that. She hadn’t really been equipped to explain to Jon that first night all of the horror she’d been through, either.

“Come,” she said, holding out her hand to them with a hither forth. “We’ll get you inside the Keep.” She smiled warmly to her brother. “I have so much to tell you. About Jon, especially. But first you must rest.” She looked up again, wondering if this was really all to their party. “I don’t see Hodor. Did he not leave with you?”

“Hodor’s one of the dead now,” Bran said dispassionately and a cold thread ran through her.

“Oh. I’m so sorry, Bran. We shall find you a minder immediately.” She turned to discover Maester Wolkan at her side. “Maester Wolkan, will you be able to carry my brother to the family’s quarters?” He was a big man, after all.

“Of course, my lady.” He smiled pleasantly to Bran. “Welcome home, Lord Stark.” He bowed to him before reaching over to slide him to the end of the cart. Bran held up his arms automatically to clasp around the man’s neck as Wolkan bent down to lift him.

Sansa looked around at everyone still gawking at their young lord. And it suddenly hit her. Bran was the Lord of Winterfell now. She stood up straighter. “Let’s get them inside. Everyone, stand back and make way for them. I must see to my brother’s care.”

The flurry of excitement that had spread through the courtyard continued to grow, however, as Sansa followed behind Wolkan and Bran, her mind on a dozen things at once. Meera came up beside her and Sansa reached over to hook the girl's arm into her own.

“Meera, I’m assuming by the direction you entered the castle you’ve traveled down from the north. You must tell me what you’ve seen, once you’ve had a chance to get some rest. I’m sure I can find you some proper clothes in my wardrobe and I’ll have them brought to you. We’ll bring you into the family Keep and keep you in Rickon’s room for now.”

“Rickon’s dead, too, but you already know that.”

Sansa shot up her head to see Bran looking back at her over Maester Wolkan’s shoulder with that puzzling equanimity. A horrible guilt flared in her chest; she’d been hoping to spare Bran the news about their baby brother’s capture and murder for at least a day, but she was stunned at the pronouncement.

“How did you hear about that?”

“I didn’t hear anything. I saw it.” Bran turned away to face forward as Maester Wolkan bent his head to clear another archway at the mouth of the Great Keep.

She turned to Meera. “Saw what? What does he mean?”

Meera only shrugged. “He’ll have to explain it, Lady Stark. A lot has happened.”

“I imagine it has,” she replied, a deep uneasiness settling in her. But she fixed a smile to her face for the girl. “And now you’re safe. Come, let me show you where you’ll sleep.”

* * *

Davos leaned back in his chair and watched him.

Jon sat surrounded by his men at the table as they swapped stories for their after dinner entertainment. He seemed to be doing better. Davos noted that the past several nights had grown quieter as the king’s cabin next to his own stayed silent, and now Jon sat with a grin on his face listening to Little Gabe regale them with another prurient tale from his adventures with slatternly women. The lad was the smallest of them but had a savage strength when called upon, while possessing a certain innocence to the rest of the world and its goings on. The men loved to take the piss out of him if for no other reason than to see Gabe worked up into a lather, his ignorance on most things always the butt of a joke.

“And then, not even a minute into it, before we’d even reached a how’s your father, if you please, sir, she had a finger in me bum! Well, in all my livin’ days, gentlemen, I ain’t ever felt such a thing in my arsehole before. Shocked me so hard, it did, I let out a fart before I even knew what was happenin’! I think the force of it blew her finger right outta there, and ain’t none returned since!”

The laughter was uproarious around the table, a few of the men banging their cups to the table in appreciation. Jon laughed with the rest of them, but it was with a gentle fondness as he eyed the group and their reactions.

“Aye, you’re a fine lover, Little Gabe. I’m sure she was tellin’ all her friends about you,” Tomas chuckled as he raised his cup for another swig.

“Well, you know she was thinking twice next time she had the urge to do that again,” Jerrod said. “You flatulent bastard, you went and ruined it for the rest of us, mate!”

Davos laughed with them, and it was good to feel the camaraderie again with this group, a simple joy that he’d been away from for too long. The vassals of the North and beyond had been a tetchy lot and Davos had longed for the old days, when smuggling with his crew had provided these intimate moments, of unwinding with his men discussing life’s pleasures.

“White Harbor has the best brothels in the North, the whores as good as any in the capital,” the captain offered with a quiet measure. “You’ll get treated to more ‘an a finger if you’re up for it, I dare say.”

He was a Northman, like Jon and his guards, but of an age with Davos. It had been an easy affair to offer him assistance where needed, and the man had welcomed any advice with a silent smile, regardless of whether he followed it or not. But over the course of the voyage, he’d begun to join in their revelry each night more and more and now he was inquisitive, his focus on Jon as the men all talked at once to recount their best brothel stories.

“How’s the ale, Your Grace? I can crack another barrel open if you be wantin’ some more,” he offered, with a tip of his head and a raise of his cup.

“It’s very good,” Jon said, the first words he’d spoken that evening. All the men turned quiet as they twisted their heads towards him. “Better than anything we ever made up at the Wall, for sure.” Davos had watched Jon consume a fair amount of it during dinner, too.

“Better than anything in all the seven kingdoms, I’d wager,” Tomas claimed.

“Aye, it’s a proper beer, all right. This one’s the best black beer you’re as ever like to find in Westeros. Brewed right in the Wolf’s Den, so particularly fitting, Your Grace.” He raised his cup again. “Founded by one King Jon, and now the inmates get to share the fruits of their labour to another one.”

“Aye, to King Jon!” Kevven shouted, raising his cup, too. The men all followed, calling out for their king, and Jon dropped his eyes to the table, a dark flash across his face before taking another long drink from his cup. He pounded it to the table when he was done.

“I think I’ll take you up on that offer, Captain.”

The men joined in with their agreement, and the captain disappeared for a short time as Jerrod began a story about his stint working in a brewery as a young boy. But once the captain returned with a fresh pitcher to fill everyone’s cups, the conversation turned introspective. Soon, they were talking about the purpose of their mission again, and the promise of defeating the dead. The men asked their questions of Jon once more, sometimes hesitantly, always with curiosity as they wondered what they would face, what the dead were like, and all the while the captain watched Jon as they spoke.

“I heard some of ‘em aren’t no more ‘an skeletons, their flesh is so rotted away. Is that true, King Jon? How is one supposed to fight some walkin’ bones?” Jerrod asked.

Jon looked to him and nodded gravely.

“Aye, those stories are true. It’s a strange thing to look upon, as you can well imagine. No heart to spear, no brains to split in two. Yet they move, and attack as hard as the rest, and a man can only beat them back until you’re able to splinter them apart like a chair against a wall, watch them smash into pieces. I saw a dozen of them run up the back of a giant, and they were like rats scurrying over a bloated carcass, just bloody relentless.”

The men sat awed at such a thing as a silence settled over them.

“But the Wall will surely keep them out, Your Grace,” the captain suddenly stated, and everyone turned to him with some wariness in their faces. “It’s what it was built for, after all. Oh, I know they say it was for the wildlings, but my nan used to tell us stories, me and my brothers. You couldn’t shut her up about ‘em. But she repeated them, over and over, to keep us from taking the black, to keep such thoughts of adventure out of our heads as we wondered what was on the other side of it.” He shook his head to the group sadly. “All this worry over what’s coming, but what do you make of it, Your Grace, that you don’t think that chunk of ice that’s been standing for eight thousand years won’t do what it was meant for?”

The eyes in the room swung back to Jon, their expressions in wait for his answer to a question they’d all been thinking. Davos had heard their talks when they thought they were alone, knew their belief in their king was strong but their fear was greater.

Jon took a sharp breath and straightened in his seat, setting his cup on the table as he regarded them all patiently.

“I heard those stories growing up, too, same as you. Listened with bated breath along with my sisters and brothers as Old Nan would tell us of spiders as big as houses. How children had been born and lived in darkness and never knew anything else. But then I grew up. Became a man and a brother of the Night’s Watch. My thoughts were on adventure, too, as much as it was on service to the realm. I put those stories away where I thought they belonged. And then I went out beyond the Wall, and I saw things … things I’d never seen before.”

Jon kept his eyes on the table, cup in hand, staring off to a memory as the rest of them sat silently, breaths held.

“We fought the wildlings on the Wall, my black brothers and I. Stood at the top of it and watched when Mance Rayder brought a hundred thousand strong to our gate with the biggest fire the North had ever seen. He had united over ninety clans for their fight. Thenns, Hornfoots, cave people, giants.” Jon looked up at them suddenly. “The first time I ever saw a giant, I almost pissed myself.”

There was relieved laughter around the table as they recognized and appreciated their king’s fear, that he was a boy once, too. But Jon continued.

“Most of you were in the battle against House Bolton. You saw Wun-Wun, what he gave us, with how massive he was. Just one of him was worth, what? Ten men? Twenty? Look at what he did to their forces, with just a single blow.”

“Aye, he was probably worth more,” Tomas spoke up, looking around to the rest for some support. “It took almost thirty of us to move his body from the courtyard. We had to drag it out to the edge of the woods, with chains and ropes and horses, to set the body on fire. We could smell that roasted flesh for weeks after.”

“Exactly,” Jon agreed. “And so imagine looking down from the Wall and seeing _two_ of them. You thought we were outnumbered at the battle to take back Winterfell? They had a hundred thousand to our one hundred men, all that was left of our garrison at Castle Black. And one of these giants rides up on a _mammoth_. I only knew what it was because my Old Nan had described them to us as children. How big do you think a beast like that would need to be to seat a giant?”

Little Gabe looked around at the others and back to Jon. “What’s a mammoth?”

“A big fucking hairy elephant,” Jon answered before taking another long gulp of his ale, finishing it off. He slammed down his cup and then nodded his head to Jerrod, who reached for the pitcher and filled it up again. Jon curled his arms in front of him. “And big tusks in front of it. Just bloody massive.”

He sat up straighter, eyeing them all. “We watched with our jaws dropped as they brought this mammoth right up to the tunnel gate. One of the giants – his name was Mag the Mighty – started smashing the outer layer, punching holes in the wooden beams to get to the main surface. The bars on that gate are four inches thick of cold rolled steel,” Jon said then started to laugh, as if at a jape that none of them had heard, and the men looked to each other uneasily. “And it didn’t stop them. Just as I’d said to Ser Alliser, that murdering _cunt_.”

Davos raised an eyebrow. It was disconcerting to hear Jon use such a word, let alone with such vehemence, the king not often indulging in profanities.

“They used grappling hooks on the end of ropes tied to those beasts and secured the gate. Every step forward they took, we could hear the metal groan. We dropped another barrel of burning oil on them and the explosion spooked the beast, trampling half a dozen wildlings as it ran. In the melee, we managed to kill one of the giants,” Jon continued, cradling his drink with both hands. “And then … the other one flew into a rage. It roared its war call. Bent down and began lifting the gate.”

“It _lifted_ the gate?” the captain asked, eyes wide with disbelief.

“Aye. With all of his strength.” Jon took another drink of his ale and the men sat enraptured, waiting breathlessly for him to continue. This was the most they’d ever seen Jon speak in one sitting aside from his speeches.

He leaned forward, his expression hard but his gaze back on the wood of the table. “I’d sent six brothers down to hold it. Some of them my friends. Mag the Mighty made it into the tunnel. And my friends held the gate, taking him down. But they all perished there.”

Jon suddenly flashed his eyes up, capturing them all with a stern look. “And that was a _living_ giant that did that. Following a human man. One whose only want was to get his people south of the Wall so they might keep on living.” Jon shook his head. “Now I ask ye, what do you think a dead one might be capable of doing? Powered by a being that’s been waiting for eight thousand years to return? ”

Jon was met with silence. Even for Davos, it was a sobering image, to understand the full strength at the Night King’s command.

“So,” Jon opened his hands in appeal to them. “What do we think will happen then, when the Night King and his army reach the Wall?” His tone turned almost cheery, and something in Davos responded to the futility for a moment.

“They say there’s enchantments,” one of the men said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Ah, yes, the enchantments,” Jon repeated with heavy disillusion. “The first time I saw a dead man wake, I was still steward to Lord Commander Mormont. We found the dead bodies of our brothers at the edge of the Haunted Forest and brought them through the northern side of the tunnel and into Castle Black. And later that night, one of them attacked me.” He shrugged with a frown. “Should we really be relying on enchantments? We don’t even know what exactly they guard against.” Jon took a great breath, raising his cup to the air and talking in exaggerated fashion. “Now, imagine I’m the Night King. I’ve been out there, working tirelessly, raising my army. And not just one body here or there. I can wipe out entire villages in an afternoon. It’s taken me years, but now I have the numbers. One of the greatest armies ever seen, comprising of giants and Thenns and all manner of beasts, any useful body that might come out of the ground. And I get all the way to the Wall, only to discover,” and Jon looked up at them all, his face one of mock surprise. “Well, fuck, I can’t get in. Bugger it all. What’s a king to do?”

There were a few nervous chuckles from the group, but no one offered any solutions, Jon’s sarcasm making their situation plain.

“Think of the embarrassment. Having to turn to your dead folk, your lieutenants, and telling them all they have to turn around. No help for it, sorry, mates. There’s just no way to pass. _Why_ didn’t he think of that before?” Jon made _tsking_ sounds with his teeth as he shook his head again at the pretend disappointment. Davos frowned, his concern escalating as he watched Jon get more animated and progressively drunker. He’d never seen him taking to drink this way in all the time Davos had known him.

“Aye, so you think he has a plan?” the captain added, not fazed by the gloom that had descended in the hall.

“I would say he most definitely has a plan. After all, the Wall doesn't keep going across the world, it ends at the sea,” Jon replied, staring into his cup before tipping his head back to swallow the last of his ale. He put down his tankard and nodded towards Jerrod again, who instantly glanced in Davos’s direction with uncertainty. Davos subtly nodded back and Jerrod began to pour. Jon needed some sleep after all.

“When we fought at the Fist of the First Men, they eviscerated us. Took over two hundred of our men. I went back there after the slaughter, with Mance. He showed me the horses. They’d been cut up and laid out in a pattern. A great spiral of heads and torsos. It was a design that had been carefully rendered, with some thought to it. And these weren’t the actions of the dead, these were from White Walkers. When I fought one, it looked in my eyes, sized me up, the way a man might on the battlefield. He knocked into me, threw me so hard across the Keep, I couldn’t breathe when I landed, my chest ached like it had been cracked in half. And when I brought my sword down on him, he splintered like glass into a thousand shards.”

“Where do you think the White Walkers came from?” Little Gabe asked with fear in his eyes and a tremble in his voice. “Did he make them, you think?”

“Aye, I know he did,” Jon answered without a moment’s hesitation. “I know where he took them from. And from whom.”

“What do you mean, Your Grace?”

Jon drank again, lost in his thoughts. “At Craster’s Keep. It was an outpost the Watch used, about two day’s journey from Castle Black. Craster was a foul man who … kept his daughters as wives.”

“I heard about Craster,” Tomas said ominously. “From one of the wildlings.”

“And his wives would bear him more daughters for him to marry. But the boys … I saw what he did with the boys.”

The tension was thick as they all sat there waiting for Jon to finish his story, an encroaching understanding of where it was heading.

“I followed Craster one night, when we garrisoned there. One of the women had just given birth. And I saw him leave with the child in the dead of night. I followed him through the forest. Saw him go to the tree line and leave the baby in its swaddling, laying it on the ground. And I saw what took that baby.” He looked up at them all again. “It’s how he makes them. Only the gods know just how many babies Craster gave them to fill their ranks over the years.”

Despite having heard the information before, Davos felt a chill race up his back. He began to understand Jon’s panic and sense of urgency a little better, and the enormous pressure he was placing on himself.

“ _Bloody ‘ell_ , how are we supposed to fight them that’s coming, King Jon?”

Jon smiled then, and it was a deep, foolish grin. “With dragon fire,” he said, arching an eyebrow as his smile widened. He started to laugh gaily, and all the men laughed with him, happy to slough off the tenebrous cloud that had settled in the mess, where Jon preferred to eat with his men. He’d refused the captain’s invite to the officer’s saloon, which was fine with Davos. Jon needed to be around others as much as the men wanted to be around Jon.

The conversation started to liven up, the men happy to return to their inanities about mundane topics, instead of dead men coming for them with giant beasts, but Davos eyed Jon with concern. His shoulders had started to droop as he leaned back against his chair, a dazed look coming over him. Davos could practically see the worry eating away at the poor sod. Little Gabe shouted a few gleeful obscenities and Jon smiled dully, seeming to feel no pain as his head tipped forward.

“Your Grace?”

Davos got up. “Lads, you can keep having your fun, but I think the king needs some rest. He’s no seaman like some of you. And I think you’ve kept him up long enough.”

“I’m fine, Davos,” Jon said, his head snapping up. “I told you. I don’t need you to protect me.”

“Aye, I know that,” Davos said with a smirk as he came around the other side of the table and reached for Jon’s shoulder. “But let’s say we get you to bed anyway.”

“I’m not a boy who’s yet to sprout hair between his legs,” Jon snapped angrily. “I’m a bloody king. Don’t propose to send me to my room as if I’ve passed my bedtime.”

The men turned quiet again, watching intently, but the captain came to the other side of Jon to help Davos.

“Of course not, Your Grace. What would you like to do?”

Jon made to stand up.

Then fell heavily to one side, his body slamming into Davos.

“Whoa!” “Your Grace!”

The men all stood up as both Davos and the captain grabbed hold of Jon’s side, Davos sliding an arm behind his back. They both draped Jon’s arms across their shoulders.

“It’s all right, we’ve got you.”

“You think I don’t know what they’re saying? That I’m a fool to go and see this queen,” Jon hissed, his words starting to slur.

“No one thinks that, King Jon,” Little Gabe said with a rush, his eyes now wide as he watched them carry Jon through the mess. “We know you fight for us.”

“They’re like rats, so many skittering rats, Davos,” Jon said hoarsely, his body shuddering while both Davos and the captain fully carried his weight. “And they won’t leave.”

“Jon, take it easy. We’re almost there,” Davos murmured back.

They’d left the dining quarters and moved lower down the corridor to the end of it where Jon’s cabin was situated. It was a tight squeeze with the three of them and they had to twist to the side with Davos leading their little squad. When they entered the cabin, the captain helped Davos move Jon to the bed, the boat weaving and rocking enough to make it difficult to carry him along. But once they did, Jon dropped his body to the feather bed with a heavy thud.

“I’ll take it from here,” he told the captain. “Don’t worry. He’ll be fine in the morning.”

“Perhaps, but with the head not feeling so good, I’d say,” he replied before leaving.

When they were alone, Davos shifted Jon so he was on his back, with arms outstretched. He reached down to remove Jon’s boots, giving the first one a tug.

“I don’t know what to do, Davos,” Jon mumbled, his misery in every word.

“Yes, you do,” he encouraged. “Don’t mind this night. Every man gets drunker on the seas, it’s a known fact. You’ll be right as rain tomorrow. I know a good cure for what will surely be ailin’ you when you wake.”

“No, with _her_ ,” he slurred. Jon had his eyes closed, exhaustion in his features. “I know what she wants from me.”

Davos cocked his head. “Daenerys? We’ll figure it out when we get there, Jon. You’ll see.”

“ _Sansa,”_ Jon hissed into the room, fading as weariness began to take hold of him.

Davos paused. Jon had crossed the backs of his hands over his face. “What do you think your sister wants from you, Jon?”

“ _Everything,”_ Jon sighed, emotion in his voice. “All of me.”

The other boot slid off of Jon’s foot and Davos held it in hand for a moment, trying to decipher Jon’s words. He knew there was something between the two of them that had been hard to pin down, the other lords often bringing up Jon and the Lady Sansa’s loyalty to each other as a point of debate. He wasn’t sure what to say, and so he carefully took Jon’s boots and placed them next to Longclaw resting against Jon’s trunk. The belt it was normally strapped to lay strewn on the floor and Davos bent to pick it up.

“Leave it,” Jon said coldly.

Davos straightened. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Jon?”

“No, Ser Davos. Thank you, you can go now.”

Davos took another long look at Jon spread out across the bed, as still as he’d been when Davos had found him gutted and frozen on the ground.

“Get some rest, Your Grace.”

Davos blew out the candle in its lantern and the room plunged into darkness, only the moon outside the porthole letting in its ghostly light.

* * *

“Oh, Lady Sansa, are you alright?” Mhaegen asked, looking worried as she fiddled with Sansa’s hair. “You’re looking a bit peaky,” she fussed.

Sansa sat at her vanity with wide eyes, staring at the jars and brushes in front of the mirror. She remembered them rattling and colliding as Jon had fucked her against the table, the brush clattering to the floor as she’d moaned and begged for him, and she wondered if Bran had seen this, too, if he’d watched them over a dozen nights entwined with each other lustily, committing their terrible sin. Another icy shiver ran through her and Sansa gripped the edge of the table to steady herself.

“Yes, I’m not feeling terribly well,” she agreed. “It must be all the excitement.”

To realize her brother had seen her wedding night had been awful enough, his emotionless words making the recollection of what happened after the feast that much worse. Bran’s nebulous explanations for his newfound sight were incomprehensible to her, but she understood that his gift had come at a terrible price, judging by his withdrawn demeanor. There was nothing left of the little boy who had longed for adventure, who grew excited by stories of the knights of the Kingsguard, who had smiled at her with such sweetness. She didn’t know this stranger at all, except to know that she feared him. Why would he have summoned up such a dreadful memory of her? And how did he come to see it? She was afraid that just being near him would alight in his mind more visions of her. Of her and Jon. Sansa closed her eyes and saw Jon waiting for her, spread out on her bed as she climbed on top of him.

“Mhaegen, tell Stefon to have the servants bring supper for me and my brother in the family’s dining chamber. And please invite Lady Meera to join us.” Sansa didn’t need Bran spouting more of her histories in front of the Northern lords.

“I should think Lord Stark will be quite tired and not up for the procession of his bannermen come to see him at the feast. We shall make it a night of celebration tomorrow evening instead, once my brother has had a full day of rest.”

“Are you sure, Lady Sansa? They all want to see him. It’s all anyone is talking about in the kitchens.”

“Yes, I’m quite sure. The two of them have traveled a long way. The townsfolk and the lords and ladies will simply have to wait another night. And I should like to spend some time with my brother alone.”

“Of course, m’lady, I’ll see to it.” Mhaegen finished putting in the last comb in Sansa’s plaits then brushed a hand across her shoulders. She stepped back and gave her a hesitant look in the mirror before dropping her eyes to her feet. “Lord Baelish was asking for you, earlier. He wanted to speak with the little lord.”

“Bran is hardly little anymore,” Sansa replied instantly. “And tell Lord Baelish that I wish to be with my family this night. He can talk to my brother another time when I allow it.”

“Yes, Lady Sansa.”

Mhaegen left, and the second the door closed Sansa was up and pacing the measure of her room. She wished again that Jon were here. He would know how to act. Sansa rubbed a thumb over the knuckles of one hand as she walked, trying to calm her mind so she could present herself with confidence when she was in the room with her little brother again. There was much to find out, and as terrifying as it was to imagine he could see all of her secrets, her curiosity was just as great. It was bewildering how a young woman had managed to keep her crippled brother safe in the wilds of the North and she wanted to hear more from Howland Reed’s daughter. She knew instinctively that the girl would provide a true account, one free of obscure meanings.

Sansa straightened her back, her shoulders stiff. Yes, she would focus on Meera, on their travails, and put her thoughts of Jon away while she was in the presence of Bran. Her mind would be a screen, impenetrable to any greenseeing. She needed to protect Jon and she would see it done.

Later, in the evening, she sat at the table in their solar and watched Maester Wolkan carry her brother in, Meera trailing behind them. Candlelight was relegated to the table and the sconces on the wall, the candelabra overhead snuffed out. She didn’t need Bran looking too hard into her face.

Sansa stood. “Bran, how are you feeling, brother? I thought you might appreciate an intimate setting over the Great Hall, this night, as you get used to your home again.”

Maester Wolkan deposited Bran in the seat at the head of the table. Sansa left it for him to occupy in Jon’s absence. She wanted Bran to understand he was still the lord of Winterfell, even if he abdicated his position as heir. Jon might have something to say about that once he learned that Bran was alive. She’d already written him of the news, but for some reason had not been able to send the missive off with a raven as yet.

“I don’t really think of Winterfell as my home anymore, but I’m rested, thank you, Sansa.”

She found his comment bizarre. “If not Winterfell, then where? Why return if you don’t believe this?”

“My home is everywhere,” Bran said, unruffled by her questions. “I am meant to be here now, for when the Night King comes. I need to find him.”

“I don’t understand.” Sansa sighed as she tore at some bread. She wished her brother could speak plainly.

“Bran saw him,” Meera added, while watching a servant ladle soup into her bowl. “In a vision. And then he came to our cave. He brought the dead to us, they were everywhere. Bran and I only just barely got away.” She glanced up to Sansa then swung her eyes to Bran with affection in her gaze. “We all knew we had to get Bran out, that he’d been chosen. Hodor was lost there, protecting us. And Summer. And the … well, the original Three-Eyed Raven. Bran said the Night King destroyed him, and that was when Bran’s sight was complete.”

“You had Summer with you still?” Sansa was immediately attuned to the mention of Bran’s direwolf. Ghost was the only one left, and Sansa felt herself wishing that he was here in their chambers with her and Bran.

“Yes. The wights devoured him,” he stated with that neutral placidity. It was getting under Sansa’s skin to hear it. Bran suddenly blinked, looking around the room. “Where _is_ Ghost?”

Sansa felt a chill, as if Bran had picked up her thoughts, and resolved to close her mind, to think of only her brother’s experience.

“Ghost is around. Jon left him here. But you must tell me more of this cave where you dwelled. Where were you? How did you get there? The last I heard of you and Rickon was when Theon confessed to me that he’d never harmed you; that you had both escaped with Hodor.” She looked between Meera and Bran. “When did the two of you meet?”

Meera’s eyes widened as she finished slurping from her spoon. “Oh. My brother and I found Bran and his party after they’d left here. We … we went with them all the way past the Wall. To the first heart tree where the Three-Eyed Raven stayed with the children of the forest.”

“Wait. Why go to the Wall and not seek out Jon?” She had wondered this ever since Jon had told her about their brother's last sighting.

“Jon wasn’t there. He was with the wildlings,” Bran said, swirling his spoon around his bowl delicately but not partaking. She was strongly reminded of Jon and the paucity of his appetite.

"Yes, but how did you know that?" Bran only stared blankly at her and Sansa glanced to Meera again, hoping for a better explanation. “And you said you traveled with your brother? Yet he is not with you.”

“No. My brother died,” Meera said quietly, casting her eyes to her soup.

“I’m so sorry,” Sansa replied automatically. “So why did you go to this cave then?” She shook her head at Bran. “And how did Rickon end up with the Umbers?” She narrowed her eyes, feeling accusatory. “If you are a greenseer, why didn’t you see his fate happening?”

“It’s difficult to lay it all out,” Bran began nonchalantly, staring towards the hearth. “To make everything that happened have some semblance of understanding for others to easily digest,” he added as he turned to focus on her. “I sent Rickon away because I knew the road forward would be dangerous. Osha was a wildling, she was fierce and devoted to him. I knew she could protect him, shield him from the threats along the way. I hadn’t been able to see everything then. But it was something that was meant to happen.”

“Our brother was meant to die?” she asked, a flash of anger in her tone. “And this Osha? What happened to her, I wonder?”

“Ramsay stabbed her in the throat.”

She felt the cold rush her insides again, afraid where the discussion might lead to, and quickly sought to change its course.

“Fine, then. You didn’t know. Do you want me to accompany you down to the crypts to pay your respects later?” Bran arched an eyebrow, a curious affectation as though he were actively considering it.

“Yes, I would,” he said in a deadened voice. “To see Father and Aunt Lyanna, as well. Jon has you ruling while he’s gone,” Bran stated, switching topics as artfully as her. “And you must keep the work going. Remind your vassals that we must prepare every fortress and holdfast, for the dead will surely come, leaving no village unplundered. I will go to the godswood in the morning and watch for him, see where his progress has taken him.”

“And how do you do that?” she asked baldly, trying to understand the way her brother might watch her, too.

“I have eyes everywhere,” he said softly. “They fly through the sky, and I fly with them, just as the Three-Eyed Raven predicted.”

“You fly?” she asked in confusion. “As in, metaphorically?” Then her mind made it plainer. “Oh, you mean ravens? _Actual_ ravens?”

“Yes. They show me things.” And Sansa felt another shudder run through her.

“I see. Well, I will make sure you have plenty of opportunity to spend with your ravens while in the godswood, brother.” She looked over at Meera as the servants came around with the second course. “And you, Meera. Do you need to sit with him? Or is there some other task I can help with?”

“Oh, I … I leave him to that. If you have any use of me, you must let me know, Lady Stark. I can help prepare with the rest of them. I’m pretty good with a spear-”

“Jon seeks dragon glass,” Bran cut in. “I’ve seen it there on Dragonstone. We will have the weapons we need.”

A sudden need to know how Jon was doing overtook Sansa. She widened her eyes to Bran, wanting to close her thoughts to him but desperate for him to give her any news of Jon’s whereabouts, a view of his future.

“Are you able to see Jon now? Does this mean he’ll be back soon?”

But Bran turned his eyes back to the hearth, growing inscrutable once more. “It is best to leave Jon alone for the time being. He has … much to go through.”

Sansa felt a looming panic. “What does that mean?”

“I saw him at Hardhome. With the rest of them. He understands what needs to happen.”

“Yes, of course. He told me about it. But can you see him on Dragonstone? Has he met this queen yet?”

Bran met her eyes then and Sansa stifled a gasp. It felt like he could see right inside her. “I’ve seen Jon. We need him. And he needs to know.”

“Know what?” she asked with a rising frustration. It was worse than talking with Littlefinger.

He looked to his food and sighed. “You must forgive me, Sansa. I don’t think I have much of an appetite this evening. I should like to retire to my room now.”

Sansa contained her surprise. “Of course, Bran. I will have Maester Wolkan return and he will have someone see to your comfort.” She stood and rang a bell by her plate. “We’ll need to find you another Hodor, soon, as the maester is quite busy most hours of the day.”

“You mean another Wylis,” Bran said coolly.

“I beg your pardon?”

Her brother’s gaze was on her again. “His name was Wylis.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “How do you know?” Sansa had never heard another word uttered out of Hodor’s mouth other than his namesake.

“I saw him. With Father and our uncle when they were children.”

“You saw Father when he was a child?” The shock knocked her breathless for a moment. What couldn’t Bran see?

Just then, Maester Wolkan appeared. “You needed me, my lady?”

“Yes, my brother would like to return to his chambers.” She frowned. The maester was not a portage option that was sustainable.

Sansa watched Bran being lifted, no apparent feelings on the matter of how his body was transported from one place to the next as his expression stayed bland. Her heart squeezed for him, then. The more she heard of Bran’s story, the more she marveled at his tenacity and fortune. He’d seen horrible things, yet here he was, another Stark survivor like her and Jon. Tenderness poured from her, even with her fear of his power keeping her on her guard.

“Good night, Bran,” she called as he was carried away.

Sansa sighed then looked down to her dinner companion and smiled.

“So, Meera … you must tell me of your home and how you came to seek my brother.”

* * *

Darkness began to seep in.

He was staring up at the wood of the cabin’s ceiling. The ship rocked. His body was rocking, too, with his face hot as he gawped for breath. The children were crawling about in the corners, but they were disappearing from his sight as ink pooled into the periphery of his vision, his eyes prickling with more heat and a flapping sound in his ear, like the wings of a pigeon.

Jon curled the belt around his hand once more, pulling tighter, the buckled pressed up against his throat with a pinch of skin. His breaths had been cut off for a minute or more, he wasn’t sure, but he’d not yet slipped completely into that black space, not been spirited away from his surroundings.

When he did this, he saw things.

Sometimes, dead faces came to him, but also the living. He worked his hand steadily, beating himself off, as the room narrowed, the blackness lapping at his vision like gentle waves atop the ocean outside of his window. Jon could feel hands on his body. They were soft and exploring, gently caressing across his scars, down his legs. They were Sansa’s hands. He conjured her as a shadow sitting astride him, then she shimmered into being, looking down at him with a disappointing shake of her head, her red hair like flames licking at his face.

“Poor brother, is this what you’ve let yourself come to? Was my cunt not sweet enough for you?”

It was. It had been. The restlessness in his body demanded that sweetness with each passing night, and Jon had wanted to feel Sansa sliding her cunt across his mouth, down his cock. He’d felt deprived of her, and it was a shameful thing to admit it, that he hadn’t yet purged her from his loins.

Sansa leaned down over him, her eyes glowing blue. “Breathe, Jon,” she whispered. Jon felt her palm strike him and his head rock to the side, desire spiking in his balls as he felt his seed draw near, his hand stroking with more urgency. He felt another impact to his cheek and this time he let go, clawed at the buckle to release its hold on his throat, and as he sucked in a great gasp, his climax was upon him, and it was like staring into the sun once more, the blinding whiteness bleaching everything else away. And then it all went black.

When he opened his eyes, he saw his cabin plainly, the room dark but for the light pouring from the porthole which landed at the end of his bed. He saw his trunk in the corner, the walls solid. But the children were gone. Sansa was gone.

He took in great lungfuls of air, his chest pained as his heart beat with thundering hoofs. The prickly sensation had spread through his head and into his neck, making everything vibrate as he felt suspended, caught between two worlds, between action and inertia, between death and life. Jon suspected he was not quite sober yet, his inebriated state making him reach for his belt in the first place. It was too many days of doing nothing on this damn ship that had degraded his mind, filling it with sickly notions.

Jon thought of his sister again as his seed lay cooling on his belly. He missed her presence, but he didn’t know if it was due to having grown so used to her body – since this started she’d been with him every night, practically – or if it was a desire to simply see her, to talk and to argue over … everything.

He sighed, able to breathe freely again. If he returned to her, he had made it clear that they would not lay with each other, that they would be normal siblings. But that might be easier said than done he was starting to realize. It grated on him that he had fallen so rapidly to such craven behavior, that he hadn’t been able to go a week without giving in to his body’s needs. What kind of a king was he for his people? Jon turned to stare out of his porthole, wishing to be swallowed up by the sea.

The thought made him sit up. He widened the belt’s noose around his neck and pulled it off, dropping it to the floor. The stickiness across his stomach revolted him, but this was him, his desire run rampant, insatiable and uncontrollable. The first time he’d done this he’d gotten hard and had let those instincts run its course. He resolved to do better. Jon got up tenderly and made his way to the basin in the corner, pouring some water from the small jug to see to his mess. After wiping himself down, Jon got dressed. He put on his boots and tied his hair back before leaving his cabin.

The boat lunged and he held tight to his door a moment as it straightened, and then he was walking the corridor, his ear attuned to any sounds coming from the cabin where Davos slept. His men were below deck with the crew, but he kept an eye out for those on midwatch as he made his way up top. The captain had offered him his stateroom, having never had a king aboard, but Jon didn’t need any special treatment and was comfortable enough, if not particularly secluded.

When he came up to the quarterdeck, he strode to the railing at the stern to take in the moon. His gaze traveled the horizon, the light through the clouds leaving beams along the black water. There were no land masses in sight yet, but the captain had said they’d passed The Fingers and would be rounding the Vale of Arryn for the next few days, that they were likely to see Dragonstone through the spyglass in another three days hence. He had only to hang on until then.

Jon looked over the side at the churning water below, feeling mesmerized by the frothy caps of the waves as they surged and swirled, a bubbling pit that beckoned, that spoke of violence and being torn asunder. He looked beyond where the Narrow Sea stilled, a great black void, and Jon wondered what lay beneath, what creatures lurked there. Would it be a haven, to drown the world out, to be coddled and held in that black silence? To sink to its depths like a stone and sleep on the ocean floor?

He thought of Sansa’s words. Was this his cause? Did it have to be him? Or was he merely talking himself into this. As a young man, Jon had dreamed of leading, of having some power, had even imagined himself a king. But now that he had it, with that great responsibility on his shoulder, Jon felt no joy in it. Jon felt nothing at all.

His eyes scanned the moonlit sea again. Three days hence and he’d see his destination within reach. He had only to wait a little longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, a few notes. First, by choking, I meant autoerotic asphyxiation. But fear not, Jon won't be discovered hanging in a closet.
> 
> Also, I would like to take a moment to give my thanks, once again, for those sticking with the story. There is a Jonmund fic on here with over a thousand kudos on 20,000 words. And I look at the word count for this thing, and the minimal interest it receives, and I just want to say that I appreciate every kudos I get, even though I am aware that many of those readers have since moved on from this fic when things got a little less Jonsa, or a whole lot darker. I know I should expect it, but even still, its a lot of work, and a lot of myself, so I thank ye, kind folk. And for the conversation and comments that follow. I've always been terrible at self-promotion, and I rarely know what the people want, nor can I seem to give it to them. But its very sustaining to have such enthusiasm on every chapter I post. And in these scary times, when it feels like the world is about to implode, I send much love and gratitude to each of you.


	20. Chapter 20

**.xx**

Sansa stood looking through the diamond cuts of the window down below to the godswood, watching her brother by the heart tree. He’d been down there the better part of the morning and would stay there for hours more. It distressed her, seeing him sitting there in the cold for most of the day, like a gargoyle on a castle wall, spending time lost in other people’s lives while his own slipped away.

Try as she might at the evening feasts, it had been difficult for Sansa to warm to him. She feared him still, her paranoia of being alone with him pervasive, worried that Bran would know how she pined for Jon to return, how she longed for his body to comfort her. She left her brother out there to his strange ruminations knowing her mother would have been displeased, but it was better than the alternative. Instead, she watched him from the safety of the castle, hoping he would not get sick with a chill – it grew colder every day – even if he’d assured her his many years of living beyond the Wall had accustomed him to it.

He sat wrapped in his furs in his odd new chair. Maester Wolkan had affixed wheels to it so that her brother might be transported around more easily. She suspected the man had tired quickly of carrying Bran from one place to another. Wolkan was no Hodor, and had many responsibilities to tend to throughout the day and so she appreciated the cleverness he brought to the task. It made for a striking entrance, when she wheeled her brother into the Great Hall with her, all eyes on them as those seated would rise and smile, tears in their eyes to see Ned Stark’s children together once more. It unified them all, and just having Bran back brought about a change in their bannermen. Many were still angry with Jon’s decision to leave, but the reunion had given them something else to consume their thoughts with, as the work to prepare for the war to come continued.

And then there was Littlefinger.

He had been shy of her since his meeting with Bran the morning before and she was curious by the sudden disappearance. What had transpired, she wondered, that would have Littlefinger holed up in his room? It begged further looking into, but once again, Sansa was stymied by a conversation with her brother, in how to direct her thoughts away from Jon as she prattled on like a lark, Bran staring at her with his blank expressions all the while. It was unnerving. Through sleepless nights, she tried to navigate the new feelings of shame that her brother’s return had incited in her. To see what she’d been doing with Jon through Bran’s eyes was not a pleasant feeling and the resentment she’d built towards Jon for leaving her had shifted to her little brother. That her memories of Jon were now sullied felt unfair; it was all she had of him, a balm to her anger. Sansa now feared visiting Jon’s bed at night, as she’d done regularly after his departure, the smell of him wrapped in his sheets. She wanted to fall asleep to thoughts of Jon between her legs, the way his tongue felt on her, the way he’d moved in her as he cupped her breast. Yet here she was, in his office and across the grounds from where Bran sat, and still she felt her cheeks burn to reflect on such wantonness, worried what Bran would think of her.

She couldn’t stand it.

Sansa made her way through the Keep and down the stairs. Meera had left for Greywater Watch earlier that morning, the girl’s face bearing the look of a broken heart when she’d nodded goodbye to Bran. He’d given her a perfunctory wish for her good fortune in the wars to come, his eyes sliding to the godswood as he spoke – an obvious gesture to convey his eagerness to get back to his daydreaming. Or whatever he was doing there, with his hand on the gnarled face of the heart tree like a warlock channeling the spirits of the dead. Meera had held back her tears in a quiet struggle and when Sansa said goodbye she’d given her a great hug, feeling a kinship to the girl’s grief. Something in Bran had died. And she didn’t know how to acquaint herself with this new incarnation.

But she knew Littlefinger, and it was to his chambers that she made her way to as she crossed the courtyard, the activity around her a comfort as she felt the pride of her people through their work. Jon had entrusted her to get the North prepared and she would see it done. As she’d told Littlefinger, it didn’t matter which side attacked first, be it north or south they would be ready for it.

As she stepped to the entrance of the Guest house, one of the guards ran to her. It was Gareth, coming from the Great Keep where she’d just left.

“Lady Sansa! The maester wanted me to bring this to you right away! It’s a raven from the king.”

Sansa snatched it out of his hands with a sudden excitement. She wanted to snap the seal and read it right there but Gareth was waiting for her response and she had a shyness steal over her. This was something she wanted to read privately, alone in her room. She opened her mouth to speak, Gareth staring at her with expectancy. He was a nice looking lad, blonde hair under his bell-shaped helmet, she recalled, with bright blue eyes that held a shining respect for her. Jon had demoted Gareth to a post outside of the Keep after his failure with Willem to turn her away, but the boy seemed to harbor no ill will and carried himself with a desire to please. His clean shaven visage only emphasized his earnestness.

“Thank you, Gareth. Please remind Maester Wolkan to check on my brother in the godswood. He does need to eat from time to time.”

“Yes, my lady. I’ll see to it.” He hurried away and Sansa took the moment to clasp the scroll to her chest, slipping it into the pocket of her skirt before turning to enter the Guest house.

When Littlefinger opened the door of his chambers, his eyes widened in surprise.

“Sansa! What are you doing here?”

“Perhaps you may have heard, Lord Baelish, but this castle belongs to my family. I’ve come to see how you’re faring. We missed you at the feast last night.”

Littlefinger blinked back at her, looking decidedly uncomfortable, and stammered back an answer, a most unusual reaction.

“My dea – Lady Sansa, I would – uh – I had a few matters that needed my attention. Do forgive my absence.” He bowed his head to her as she stood at his door.

“Of course.” She waited a few beats. “Well … are you going to invite me in? Or should we hold this conversation out in the hallway?”

He cocked his head as he opened his mouth to speak, holding himself for a moment as she watched thoughts run together behind his eyes. “Yes. Perhaps I can escort you to your office?”

“Lord Baelish, is there something you’re not telling me?” He was acting very queer indeed.

“Of course not, my dear, I –”

Just then, a bustling of activity could be heard behind his door, where Littlefinger stood holding it ajar. There was a slight cough and Baelish’s features hardened before a woman appeared to the other side of him, holding her cape over her arm.

“Excuse me, Lady Stark,” Alys Karstark mumbled with her head bent as she exited Baelish’s bedchambers and quickly took her leave, hustling her steps away from them down the corridor. Sansa stared after the girl with her hands folded in front of her waist. Alys had long red hair like her own, and had taken to wearing it plaited and wrapped in the same style Sansa often wore. Sliding her eyes back to Littlefinger, the understanding between them was made plain. Littlefinger pursed his mouth and focused his gaze to the silver direwolf choker around her neck.

“I can explain,” he began, but Sansa only scoffed at him as she stepped into his room.

“I’d rather you didn’t, Lord Baelish. Although, I have to wonder what information you hope to gain from that halfwit. I possess spoons that are sharper.” She narrowed her eyes, noticing with distaste that the sheets of his bed were still crumpled. “Or perhaps you just find her fair of face?” she questioned with a rise of an eyebrow.

“Sansa, I apologize for the … indiscretion. The girl means nothing.”

“How lucky for her,” Sansa remarked drolly. Alys had only recently seen her seventeenth name day and Sansa felt a stab in her heart for how Littlefinger had molded her at that same age, knowing fully the power he’d held over her before his betrayal. “Was the local brothel not to your liking? Although, I imagine as a brothel keeper yourself, you have high standards.”

“I should like us to have this meeting elsewhere, if it please you,” he continued, a change in his manner as his mouth slowly curved into a half-smirk. “And keep your ladyship’s reputation intact. I was unprepared for your visit, which has been made all too clear. Let us embark for the courtyard and I can accompany you up to the battlements. I have news from the capital.”

“I am the Lady of Winterfell, Lord Baelish, and as such, it affords me the right to go where I please. I wish to know what you sought from my brother.”

It was Littlefinger’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “He didn’t tell you?”

“Bran is not so forthcoming these days, with his new … attitude. He has been put through quite a lot in his young life. What did you discuss with him?”

“Not much,” he answered instantly. “I was merely inquiring into his health, gave my condolences for the loss of his mother and father, asked what news he could tell us of the activity beyond the Wall. He has a unique perspective, one which may provide some insight for us all.”

“Not so unique when you consider Jon has been to the same place. Bran has simply confirmed all that Jon has already told us.”

“Ah, yes, your half-brother has given us many warnings. He’s not one to share much about his experiences, though, is he? Or perhaps he only shares them with you? I would imagine you see much more of him than the rest of us.”

Sansa felt a chill sweep through her at Baelish’s taunting. He couldn’t possibly know anything. She and Jon were too careful and Hollis’s silence was iron-clad.

“I do know him,” she answered with authority. “Jon is our king. I will see his orders are followed through.”

“And what of young Brandon,” Littlefinger drawled. “With his return, he is the heir to Winterfell, my lady, as much as that saddens me. Yet he seems to have no interest in it. What will the North think of Ned Stark’s only living trueborn son rejecting his title?”

“They will grow accustomed to it, Lord Baelish, as they have everything else that’s happened. Northerners are resilient. Jon left me in charge and I will continue to lead our people.”

“Good.” Littlefinger came closer to her, his smile growing. “That is good to hear.” He put his hand to the side of her head and Sansa allowed it, watching him with hawkish eyes as his hand smoothed down her hair to grasp the back of her neck.

“You are the hope of the North, Sansa. They look to you for direction, with their king gone. I am devoted to only you, my dear, and will help you in any way I can.”

He suddenly leaned forward, his grip at her neck firm as he raised himself to meet her lips with the press of his mouth. Sansa stood there stiffly, but she allowed it too, her thoughts racing on what Littlefinger may have heard or witnessed of her and Jon. After a moment, she stepped away from him and sighed.

“Why don’t we take that stroll, Lord Baelish. I could use some fresh air.”

* * *

Jon was cold.

He stood near the bow of the ship starboard side and looked through the spyglass again, the wind cutting through him. The tall flat wall rising out of the fortress was in his view, a great proscenium for the battles that had been staged there. The ship rose and dipped on the gusty waves as they sailed closer, their destination less than a day away. He’d finally acclimated to the boat’s constant movement but was ready to be back on solid ground, and eager for the negotiations to begin. It had been a moon for the journey and Jon was tired of waiting.

Retracting the spyglass with the flat of his palm, Jon shivered again and contemplated retrieving his cape from his cabin, the sun behind the clouds having begun its descent. But the cold was deep in his bones, it never left, the nights bleeding into his mornings as he stood topside and watched the sun fill up the horizon, gale winds whipping into his side. Seeing Dragonstone so close, it almost didn’t seem real, and Jon thought for a wild moment that he might jump into the water and swim there, just to get on with it already, the need for action like a march of ants through his bloodstream. The last few days, Jon had crafted varying speeches for the queen and her council to alert them to the threat they faced, imagined how the information would sound to those who lived nowhere near the Wall. There was no easy way to break the news and Jon knew there was a danger that this queen might not believe him. Yet he would try anyway.

“The captain said we’d be sailing into Blackwater Bay by tomorrow morning, and you and I should be on the shore before the sun begins to bow.” Davos came up behind Jon and grabbed for the ship’s rail with both hands. He smiled and took a deep breath of the air. “I won’t lie. I’ve enjoyed being back on the sea. Can’t say I’ve missed that island, though. And I certainly never thought I’d be returning to it.”

“Is it so dire a place?” Jon asked, curious about the fortress itself. It had been said to be impenetrable, the location making it impossible for a warring army to lay siege, let alone breach its defenses. Normally the harbor to a sizable portion of the Royal Fleet, and now at war with them, Jon was surprised to see an empty coast through the glass even from this distance. Hadn’t this queen brought an armada with her?

“I can tell you from experience, the cells below are not so comfortable and with little to recommend them.” Davos gave a forlorn smile as his eyes skimmed over the water. “Well, perhaps the company. But she’s gone now.” He looked up to face Jon. “Let’s hope we don’t end up there.”

“You think Tyrion has set me up?” Jon asked. “Tell me plainly, Davos. What do you expect from this meet?”

“I don’t know that I want to be answering that when we’re hours away from it happening.” Davos replied earnestly. “We’re here now. Although,” and he looked behind him with a stretch of his arm. “We’ve got all of Essos behind us, if you want to try another route.”

“Surely they will see reason,” he expressed with some passion. “Death marches for us all, Davos. This war to determine who holds power over the kingdoms is meaningless.”

“Aye, I agree, but then I’m not the one needs convincin’,” Davos said. “Word on Daenerys Stormborn is that she’s a true Targaryen when it comes to her house words. But if there’s a man alive who can get her to see things differently, that man is you, Jon.” He smiled affectionately as he clapped Jon on the back.

“I suppose we’re about to find out on both,” he said quietly, staring off to the small dot ahead.

“I did like the war room,” Davos suddenly added. Jon gave him an inquisitive look. “Aegon’s Painted Table is an impressive sight. Hopefully you’ll get to see it, if all goes well.”

“Davos, if it doesn’t, I want you to get out of there at the first opportunity. If I’m held prisoner, I’ll negotiate for your freedom, but if that doesn’t work, we need to have some sort of signal to get word back to the captain, to have him sail back to White Harbor and get a message to my sister. I don’t want any of the men in my guard dying needlessly because of me.”

“I’ll see to it.” Davos placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s my job to make you see all sides, Jon, but if it’s worth anything, I’m of a mind with you. I think this will prove to be a good thing.”

Jon was feeling a mild panic that had been swelling in his insides for the last few days, however. Not that he worried for his own safety, but what did he really know of this queen and her entourage? Tyrion might have changed since killing his father. Sansa hadn’t believed her former husband had poisoned Joffrey, yet his escape from King’s Landing the night of Tywin’s murder had all but cemented his guilt. Jon heard Sansa’s voice again, in front of the assembly of their bannermen, heard her passionate argument for him not to go. The conviction he’d had upon his decision to head for Dragonstone had slowly worn away with self-doubt in the interim.

“What else do they say about Daenerys?” he asked, with his gaze still ahead. “You said that she’s her house words? What have you heard?”

“Oh, not a lot. I don’t know all the details, but apparently, the manner with which she acquired her Unsullied made for quite a tale. The masters present were all slaughtered.”

“Is that not a good thing?” Jon wondered aloud. “This idea that one can and should own another human being … such a practice is vile. My own father executed slavers and their profiteers. The Unsullied themselves are slaves. The training they are put through is barbaric. Each soldier must rip a child from its mother’s arms and kill it with their blade as an initiation.” Jon had read about it in a book. He looked towards Davos. “But are they _her_ slaves now?”

“I couldn’t speak to that, but as I said before, she was as much loved over there as she is feared by those she would crush. It certainly suggests her armies might follow her of their own volition.”

As Jon pondered Davos’s words he opened the spyglass again to take another look. He scanned it back and forth, trying to spot any red flag to indicate they were sailing into a hostile situation. Something flashed across his sight and he tried to follow it, seeing a large body disappear behind the fortress.

“Dragon,” he said excitedly. He handed the spyglass to Davos. “I think I spotted one of them. Look over to the right.”

Davos held it up and peered through the lens with his left eye. “I can’t see a bloody thing,” he declared. “Are you sure it wasn’t a bird?”

“That would be one massive bird if I can see it from here,” Jon said with awe. In spite of the danger, he felt a sudden thrill at the prospect of seeing one up close. The thought summoned up a memory for him, of Arya recounting the stories of Rhaenys and Visenya’s dragons, her eyes lighting up as she talked of her heroines riding Vhagar and Meraxas, how she would force him to read them with her. She would be so jealous to know he was on his way to see three of them. And then a pain seized his heart, to be reminded that he might never see her again, that she was likely dead. Rhaenys and Visenya Targaryen were, of course, married to their brother, Aegon, and the historical footnote brought forth an image of Sansa, of her dropping her robe as she came to him naked, fearless and bold.

“Are you alright?”

“What?” He glanced guiltily to the man.

“You look like a shadow fell over you.” Davos studied him with a wrinkled brow. “Is there something … is something else going on, Jon? Besides what’s waiting out there,” he said with a nod to the land ahead. “You’ve been troubled since we left.”

Jon shook his head. “No, nothing.” He stepped back from the edge. “Let’s go over our plans with the men again down below. Call them to the mess and I’ll meet with you all shortly.”

He left for his cabin, the slap of a belt in his ears.

* * *

“Fuck.”

Jon looked around the chambers he’d been taken to with his hands akimbo. It didn’t look much like a prison cell, with its massive bed featuring a canopy over its four posts, its hulking gold brazier in the center of the room, and its opulent finery throughout the palatial space, but there might as well have been bars on the window for all its splendor. Except when he looked to where there should be windows, he saw the chambers were missing an entire wall, the balcony open to the elements and giving him a breathtaking view of the Blackwater and the bluffs beyond. He heard the rolling roar of the waves crashing the shore and the stones below and for a brief moment forgot to be angry. The breeze wafted into his chamber, ruffling the diaphanous drapes and the silken canopy over the bed, and bringing with it the ocean’s smells.

He’d been furious with himself since being escorted away from Queen Daenerys in her receiving chamber, where she’d perched on her rocky throne as if she already commanded the seven kingdoms, the North included. The disappointment he had for all of them, for himself, was a bitter taste to swallow.

 _Am I your prisoner?_ he’d asked. _Not yet,_ she’d told him, as if that was supposed to assuage his anxiety. Tyrion hadn’t been much help, the Hand to the Queen playing a poor advocate for him. Jon felt rather deceived, as the littlest Lannister had clearly forgotten in his missive to include the part where Jon was expected to bend the knee upon arrival. He’d done his best to make a strong case for their alliance to defeat the coming war but she was not keen on entertaining his notions of dead men, if her contemptuous reaction was anything to go by. It was all quite galling, thinking of the time they’d spent to get there, the hopes he’d pinned on this meeting going well evaporating less than a minute into it. To feel the sting of defeat so quickly simultaneously enraged and dispirited him.

And yet the queen had been a surprise on many levels.

When he’d stalked into the throne room, he’d already prepared himself for the worst of it, the demand for their weapons on the beach not a good sign. He’d been taken aback, however, by how close in age she was to him and how tiny, sitting there ensconced by the strata around her chair as the stunning woman who’d been introduced as her advisor announced a litany of titles for her majesty. And Daenerys herself was equally stunning, her beauty stopping him in his tracks before he’d taken in the size of the space that surrounded them, the chamber’s ceilings reaching a staggering height.

Yet as diminutive as she was, she filled up the room, her presence a dominating force like winds wrapping a mountain as she’d walked down the steps to come before him, face-to-face, educating him on her life’s triumphs and tribulations. Jon had stood his ground, but he’d been drawn to her; the closer she got to him the more he’d found it difficult to breathe. And even as he turned away from her, the Dothraki guards buffering him and Davos on both sides, his eyes were still filled with her.

Even now, Jon couldn’t stop thinking of her hair. The long ropes of her plaits were as white as the snows of the North. And not a red hair among them.

He breathed a sigh of relief just thinking of it as he walked towards the great fenestration open to the sky. It was a few short steps up to the balcony, two great pillars to either side of him and a low stone wall preventing anyone from plummeting to the ground below. Jon looked over the battlements, noted the mile of stairs they’d taken to reach the top of the cliff and the fortress gates, the breeze embracing him as he scanned the horizon again thinking of home. He’d come too far for this. He would have to find a way to ingratiate himself to this queen.

There was a knock on the door and Jon spun around, preparing for whatever indignity was next. He expected to see more guards sauntering into his room – the Dothraki didn’t march so much as swagger, he'd noticed – and was surprised to see two women enter, a Dothraki man watching from the edge of his door. The women appeared to be of Dothraki descent as well, their cinnamon skin glowing as they smiled at him disarmingly, their arms loaded with linens and brushes. Right behind them, two more guards came in carrying an ornate copper tub between them. Jon recalled that Daenerys had given orders that baths would be drawn for them and he wondered where his men had been taken after he’d left them on the beach. The Dothraki riders glared at him with their kohl-rimmed eyes, their look fierce and imposing, but they turned quickly after setting it down and headed back out of his chambers, leaving the main work to the women. The maidens watched him, still smiling provocatively as the guards came back in bearing a large vat of water suspended by ropes. Jon stood uncomfortably as they filled the tub, one of the women unfolding a set of steps at the end, the body of the bath shaped like a sled. The metalwork at the bow of it bore the same motif of the brazier, with gilded leaves shaped as a supporting headrest rimmed by copper piping.

The tub stood on squat legs, raising it off the ground less than an inch, but enough for one of the women to slide a small iron plate underneath where she began to set a fire. The other was arranging the linens and supplies on a table to the right side of the room, next to a tall bookcase that held an array of jars and vials casting a kaleidoscope of colors, the various tints of glass refracting the ochre light from the setting sun. Once the door was closed by the guard posted outside of his chambers, Jon stepped into the room to help them finish.

“Hello,” he said with a nod of his head. The women looked at each other and giggled, saying something to each other in their language, but then bowed their heads back to him. One of the women brought a linen sheet to the tub to line it. “Oh, it’s all right. You can leave it. I can handle things from here.”

The woman had her thick black hair in a long braid behind her, the top she wore baring her arms and shoulders with a twisted noose around her neck holding up the rough fabric binding her chest. She wore a burlap skirt but with a split down the front revealing breeches underneath, and a thick gold bracelet wrapped around the upper part of one arm. The other one wore a similar style of clothing but her hair was pinned to the top of her head and the leather of her vest had strips cut out between her shoulders and the top of her breasts, which were already quite visible with the deep plunge of the vest’s neckline. It was a remarkable manner of dress, Jon thought, having never seen anyone dress for warm climates before. To see so much flesh exposed yet it did not feel shocking, and as Jon watched them work they seemed quite comfortable with his gaze, their knowing looks even encouraging him. It made him think of the freefolk and their ways, how Ygritte had been happy to show herself to him, found no shame in any of it. There was a certain freedom there that he respected.

The handmaid came up to him and took hold of his wrist, pulling him towards the tub. “You take bath,” she said to him with a heavy accent.

“Yes,” he answered. “I understand. I can –” he pointed to the water where the other woman had her hand sunk in as she fanned the flames underneath, “I can do the rest. You can go.”

Instead of listening, she dragged him towards the bed. “Come,” she beckoned when they reached the foot of it. “I help you.” She reached up to his gorget and began to unbuckle it.

“Oh,” he uttered in surprise. “No, that’s, um, you don’t have to –” He jolted when he felt the other woman at his back fiddling with the other side of the clasp. “I – I can do this,” he told them again, whipping his head to look behind him. Yet his words seemed to have no effect on them. He wondered if they understood him at all and stepped away from them both. The women looked at him with suspicion.

“I can do it. No help,” he said with a shake of his head. He knew no Dothraki and had no idea how to convey his meaning. “Me … me, Jon,” he offered in greeting, patting his chest. His hands swam about him as he tried to encompass all of the preparation for a bath. “I do. It’s all right.”

The two handmaids looked at each other with doubt in their faces and then looked back at him. “You Khaleesi’s guest. We take care of you. It is known,” said the one with the bun on her head as she reached for the buckles again.

“Um, I, uh, this isn’t necessary,” he tried again, the women ignoring him and going about their work to undress him. He took another step back to extricate himself from their hands. “Let me take bath alone,” he said in a friendly tone. He waved hands to the door to whoosh them away. “You can go. I’ll be fine.” His smile stretched wider hoping to gain their trust.

But the one with the braid just shook her head. “Khaleesi said you take bath. Why you not want bath?”

“I take bath,” he answered in exasperation, his breath tight in his throat. Jon felt like he was being faced with two copies of his sister as they came closer, and he squeezed his eyes shut while gritting his teeth as they renewed their attack on his buckles. He supposed he was going to need some help with his gear anyway, and Davos was imprisoned in his own chamber most like, so he allowed it, shrugging his shoulders this time as he let them continue. He sighed as they brought the uncoupled pieces of his gorget over his head and proceeded to work on his brigandine, a gift from Sansa. She’d designed it for him and had it made shortly after Markas had done the iron work, explaining that as king he should stand out from everyone else. Gone were his tawny leathers of the Stark uniform, and instead he was back in black, silver studs embedded across the panels.

The women removed it, too, and then they were unlacing the rest of his set. Jon stood there, his manners winning out as his fear of offending them was far greater. But once they were down to his shirt and breeches, Jon waited for them to finally leave. This was apparently not the plan.

“What are you doing?” he asked with a growing sense of alarm as fingers began to pull at the laces of his shirt.

The braided woman said something to her partner in Dothraki, her hands now under his shirt nimbly tugging at his breeches, while the other went over to the bath to check the temperature and put out the flames. She looked him in the face and smiled warmly at him. “You sit. I take boots and finish.”

Jon could feel his face and neck heating up as the farce continued. He didn’t want to be rude, but he was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with this custom. This was not what he had expected at all after being told he was in open rebellion. Again, Ygritte invaded his thoughts, the way she’d dropped her furs that first time in the cave, eagerly pulling off her shift to reveal herself. The rest of the wildlings hadn’t been any different in their approach to modesty. He’d watched Tormund and his band strip and bathe in the frozen lakes whenever they wanted a wash, men and women together, indifferent to the cold and the company. He wondered if the Dothraki were the same. Making his decision, Jon sat down on the bed at her urging and let her take his boots.

“What’s your name?” he asked the woman in front of him as she worked. Her head snapped up and she stared hard at the hand he extended towards her, as he asked again with a tilt of his head. “Name?”

A smirk tugged at the edge of her mouth, as though she found him strangely amusing. “Zhiqi,” she said, a playfulness in her gaze as she scanned down his chest to his lap.

“ _Shee-kee_ ,” he repeated slowly, the name so foreign on his tongue. He slapped at his breast again. “I’m Jon.”

The other woman came up behind her and he noticed she was still quite youthful. He put her at the same age as Sansa. “I am Ornela,” she said confidently, appraising him warily as her eyes flicked over his body. Dothraki women were nothing like the maidens in the North, he decided, their manner more brazen than he was accustomed to. She waved a hand in her direction. “You come now. Water ready.”

“Ornela. Thank you.” He stood and followed them. As the three of them stood around the tub, he glanced from one to the other to see their expectation in their faces as they waited patiently. Jon took a soldiering breath and pulled his breeches down. It was not so odd a feeling anymore, doing this in front of a woman. Ornela pointed towards the carriage steps at the stern.

“No need, I’m fine,” he said, raising a leg to climb in.

A hand stopped him, Zhiqi’s eyebrows a furry caterpillar across her brow as she frowned at the shirt hanging to the tops of his thighs. “We clean you,” she reminded him.

“I just need the heat,” he explained, stepping into the scalding water. It felt good on his legs already and he seated himself quickly, wanting the burning rush of fire on his skin to seep through and ease into his muscles. The copper was hot from the fire, even with the layer of cloth they’d lined at the bottom, and Jon kept his hands on his thighs. As he stretched his legs into the stadium shape, the heat and air billowed up his shirt and it ballooned around him. Ornela ran her hand down the front of it, slicking it to his chest, and Jon sighed with pleasure, leaning against the headrest as he closed his eyes again. He didn’t care anymore whether the women saw the rest of his body, but he felt too vulnerable currently to expose his scars to them. It had been too long since he’d had a proper bath, however, and he was of a mind to enjoy it. At least this queen had allowed him such comforts.

Ornela and Zhiqi disappeared off to one side of the chambers, but were not gone long, both coming back to kneel on either side of him with paraphernalia he didn’t recognize.

“You sit,” Zhiqi instructed, tugging on his arm until he rose to a proper sitting position. She reached behind his head to release the leather binding around his bun and Jon frowned at the thought of yet more women wanting to wash his hair. He didn’t quite understand their need of it.

But she didn’t do anything other than fan it out, her fingers scraping through his locks and dragging the ends of them down past his shoulders. She eyed him with interest, then looked at the strands of his hair she held in her grip with confusion.

“You no fight?” she asked him.

“Fight? Like, here?” He pointed down, to indicate the island they were sat on. What had they been told?

Ornela had picked up a small brush and took hold of his wrist, holding up Jon’s hand as she started to rub it over the nails of his fingers. “Khaleesi say you _khal_ in your land,” she said conversationally. “But you win no battles? How you become _khal_?”

“I have,” he replied, wondering again what Daenerys may have told them about him. He looked over to Zhiqi. “I have won in battle.”

“No _ayena_ ,” Zhiqi says, pointing to his head.

“Excuse me?”

The women looked at each other and spoke again in their language, while Jon sat there feeling utterly useless. Ornela glanced to him and back at her friend, shaking her head. She spoke to Jon. “She say you have no, uh …” she pinched her middle finger and thumb together and shook it as if ringing a bell, making a high trilling sound with her tongue to confirm his suspicion.

“Oh, a bell?” He didn’t understand what that had to do with a battle, at first, and then he recalled the faint tinkling of the tiny bells he’d seen hanging down the backs of the guards who’d escorted him to his chambers, wrapped in their long, oiled plaits. Jon hadn’t bothered to ask about their significance, eyeing the large hooked swords they carried with some worry.

“Qhono say you warrior,” Zhiqi added. “Why so short?”

“Why am I short?” he asked with some surprise. That seemed very forward and a little bit rude of them. After all, his height had nothing to do with the way he fought. But then Zhiqi was tugging at the tips of his hair again. “Oh, my hair is short?” That surprised him even more. It had grown quite long in the time it had taken for them to reach Dragonstone. Jon hadn’t had his hair cut since Melisandre had shorn it during his death and he hadn’t felt a particular need to begin.

“You no braid?”

“Um, no. No braid.” He could imagine Sansa bending over in laughter at the sight.

“Then how it is known?” Ornela asked, returning her brush to scrape across the backs of his fingers.

“How is what known?”

“You great warrior?” The woman seemed eager to understand.

“My sword,” Jon said instinctively, feeling a surge of anger at its loss, and wondered again when it might be returned.

The two women looked to each other again, Zhiqi raising her eyebrows while Ornela shrugged. Then Zhiqi stood up.

“I help. You turn.” And she patted the other end of the tub.

Jon looked behind him to the metal head rest and frowned at the implied switch. “You don’t need to help anymore. I’m fine here.”

But Zhiqi insisted, tapping at the copper lip until Jon moved up on his knees and squirmed his way around to lay at the other end for her. His shirt dragged in the water, adding weight to his movements, but once he settled at her end, Ornela lifted his head and tucked a folded cloth underneath his neck where it would rest. He sighed. He really didn’t need his hair washed.

There was a tug on his scalp as Zhiqi ran her fingers through his hair again, from the crown of his head to the ends of his wavy locks. She did it several times and Jon had to admit it felt nice, relaxing into her touch and closing his eyes. Ornela had lifted his other hand and was scrubbing his nails again, the brush against his skin feeling good too. But instead of water being poured over his head, Jon felt a warm tingling land in the center of his scalp and slowly spread across it, the feel of it thickly traveling down his hair. Zhiqi’s hands were stroking his head, coating the liquid into his tresses, and Jon assumed it was some kind of oil she was using to slick his hair. Then he felt a hard instrument on his scalp splitting his hair into parts as she worked to comb it to either side.

“What are you doing?” he asked lazily, the excitement and disappointment of the day finally taking its toll and his body giving into his exhaustion.

“I help,” was all Zhiqi would say. A hand stroked up his leg to slide under the hem of his shirt and Jon opened his eyes through slits, seeing Ornela looking back at him with a knowing smirk.

“She make you look like warrior,” Ornela informed him, her smile growing as her hand moved up his thigh. When she eventually cupped him, Jon didn’t feel any surprise at the action at all. He was becoming used to the way women felt it their right to touch his body. He smiled softly at her and gave a few slow shakes of his head. Ornela made a pouty face and rubbed his cock gently, and Jon sighed at the comfort of it, the rough tugs of his hair as Zhiqi began to wrap them together only adding more pleasurable sensations until he could hardly begrudge the way his cock stiffened. He had no strength to do much about it, however, as he lay there basking in the various stimuli. Even the breeze from the window lulled him into a state of luxuriousness.

Ornela got up and went to the case of shelves holding the assortment of vials and came back with one, unstoppering it to pepper its contents into his bath. He smelled a strong punch of mint and then it was as if the water had been struck with light, a lift in his nose making him spring open his eyes.

“Whoa,” he uttered, his head now moving back and forth with Zhiqi’s handling. He started to comprehend that she was plaiting his hair and swallowed thickly, not quite sure what to say about it. He didn’t want to be rude. He tried to make conversation instead.

“Is the … um, the _Khaleesi_. Have you been with her for long?”

“Khaleesi save me,” Ornela answered instantly. “She take me from _Dosh khaleen_ and make me free.”

“Is that a bad place?” he asked.

“I not want to be there forever,” she said with some sadness.

“I see.” He didn’t quite understand but she seemed to think that was enough of an explanation. “Do you miss home?” he wondered. From what he had read, the great plains of their lands were quite different to the island they currently resided. He remembered what Daenerys had said. _The Dothraki hadn’t crossed the sea, any sea. They did for me._ And now they were surrounded by it. That certainly spoke to their devotion.

Ornela shrugged. “We go back one day. It is known. First we help Khaleesi take iron chair.”

“Yes, the chair. Maybe you can pick up a nice carpet to go with it,” he said dryly. He was curious about Daenerys’s strategy, what Tyrion was advising. It was a relief to learn that there were no intentions to destroy the city, killing thousands of innocents. He had spoken truthfully when he told her he didn’t hold her father’s crimes against her, and she appeared to be a woman of reason. What that meant for him, he wasn’t sure yet.

“You have nice face,” Ornela informed him, her smile suddenly shy. “You have woman?” Her hands had gone back to stroking down his chest where his wet shirt clung to his body.

“Um …” Jon hemmed at an answer, thoughts of Sansa drudging up a host of complicated emotions, none of which he wanted to dwell in at the moment. “No. I’m not with anyone.”

“You have horse?”

“I do,” he offered, the hair on half of his head feeling tight and pinched as Zhiqi worked her way to the other side of him. The process seemed to involve a great many plaits and he felt the trickle of more oil as she rubbed it through his curls.

They asked him questions about his lands as they worked and Jon did his best to describe the North, finding it difficult to explain snow in any way that transcended language. He gave up and let them do their job, laying there with his thoughts on sleep as the sunlight in his chambers began to darken. He tried to ask about his men, about Davos, but they either didn’t understand or didn’t know. He had hoped to speak with Davos before supper. At the thought of food, his stomach growled loudly. Zhiqi and Ornela looked to each other and giggled and he chuckled with them. Ornela bunched her fingers and put them to her mouth.

“You want to eat?”

“I suppose I am a bit hungry,” he admitted, suddenly feeling more famished than he had in a long time.

The girl got up and began to pull her linens from a table, bringing them over to the steps of the bath as Zhiqi pulled at the last loose strands of his hair to weave them together. His entire head felt strange.

“We dress you before eat.”

Jon widened his eyes. “Oh. No, that’s quite alright. I can dress myself.” He wondered if his chest had been brought from the ship after the Dothraki had carried off their boat from the shore. Jon sat up to scan the room for it, spotting it in a corner by the bed.

“I’m good,” he told them both, his smile warm, sitting up as he felt Zhiqi finish the last of his plaits. He nodded his head to them in thanks. “Thank you very much for your help. I can finish from here.”

Zhiqi stood up and came around his side so that both women ran their eyes over him as they conferred with each other in Dothraki again. They seemed to agree to leave him, and nodded back at him.

“You look like _khal_ now,” Zhiqi announced. “We get food.”

Jon sighed in relief as they collected their things and made to leave the room. They bowed low to him again, their smiles wide and their shared laughter with each other teasing as they stepped through the door. The guard there looked back with stone cold menace before shutting it closed.

Jon got up and out of his bath immediately, water trailing from the hanging weight of his shirt to splash along the stone as he strode to the balcony. He scanned his eyes across the horizon.

His ship was gone.

**

“Well. That’s an interesting look.”

Jon spun around to see Davos entering his chamber, the guard acknowledging the one at Jon’s post before walking away.

“Davos.” Jon was happy to see he was alright, coming down the balcony steps to meet him by the brazier. There was food on his table for his supper. Exotic dried fruits and nuts, a hunk of bread and thick butter to slather it with, a poached egg and a slice of meat with browned onions beside it sat waiting and Jon waved his hand to it for Davos to join him.

“Please, sit. I’m very relieved to see you’re alright.”

“I am trying to decide if I like this new style or not,” Davos continued, his head tilting as he inspected Jon’s hair. “It’s quite … I don’t know, fearsome? Pretty? Which is it?”

Jon instantly ran his hand over the rough weave of the braids along his scalp. He surmised the tightness had something to do with the stirrings of a headache.

“I didn’t know how to refuse them,” he said. “I’m going to need your help undoing them.”

“That might be difficult,” Davos replied as he held up his hand with the halved fingers as a reminder.

“Fuck,” Jon swore. The gods knew how long it would take him.

“I imagine you’ve had a look out of your window?” Davos acknowledged as he gestured his chin to the view at his balcony.

“I don’t know what to make of it. Daenerys holds us prisoner while she goes off to tend to whatever that news was she received in the throne room. But we’re allowed to move freely, it seems.”

“Aye, I had a look about the place earlier. My guard was accommodating, bringing me to you when I asked. I’m surprised to see where they put you.”

“Why?”

Davos took a breath and looked around the chambers with some remembrance. Jon imagined that Davos had a lot of memories from this place and would be assailed with some unpleasant things.

“The Lady Melisandre stayed in these chambers when Stannis had the castle.” He nodded to the brazier standing in the center of the room, its flames already lit in the early dusk when his food had been brought. “She tossed leeches into this very brazier and cursed the four kings that stood in the way of Stannis and the throne.”

“What? Here?” Jon glanced at the flames wavering in its pit and thought of Robb’s vicious end.

“I was also surprised to see Lord Varys in attendance. So she has a steady stream of information coming her way. I wasn’t sure if he was supporting her or not but we have our answer now.”

“That was Lord Varys?” For a split second he wished for Sansa’s counsel. She knew these people better than him.

“So, what should we do next?”

Jon sighed. “Eat? I’m starving.” He picked up one of the wrinkled fruits and tasted it. It had the flavor of an apricot and was delicious. He popped the rest of it in his mouth. “I’ll tell them to bring your supper here so we can eat together.”

After asking his guard for Zhiqi or Ornela to bring Ser Davos an extra plate of food, he came back to sit at the table where Davos had poured them both a cup of wine from the crystal decanter Jon had failed to notice. He lifted up his chalice and held it out to Jon, waiting for him to do the same. “Well, we made it here and we’re not dead yet,” he said with some cheer, tapping his cup to Jon’s before they both took a sip. The wine was strong and juicy, a taste of currants and cherries with a woodsy note hitting the back of his throat.

“That’s good,” he noted, taking another sip.

“That is exceptional,” Davos added.

They enjoyed their wine for a bit, talking of what Davos had learned about Jon's men, until a knock came at their door. It opened and Ornela came in bearing a tray with more food. She smiled widely when she saw Jon.

“Thank you, Ornela,” he said, returning her smile when she placed it before Davos.

“You need more?” she asked, before rubbing her hand over his head affectionately. Jon didn’t know what to make of it, and was thrown for a moment. “I give you,” she offered, a hungry gleam in her eye.

“Oh. We, uh, we’re good.” He looked to Davos who only grinned back at him. “Did you need anything else, Ser Davos?”

“Perhaps we’ll be needin’ another bottle of wine,” he said to the girl. She nodded with a more demure smile and left. Davos turned to him.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

Jon scowled. “She’s just curious about me, Davos. I expect we look very different to them. It was an interesting conversation.”

“What conversation was that?” Davos took another sip of his wine as Jon began to cut up his meat. He looked up at Davos with some puzzlement.

“You didn’t speak to your handmaidens during your bath?”

Davos’s eyes widened, his eyebrows shooting to his forehead. “I beg your pardon?”

Jon felt a slight alarm. “Um, did you not get a handmaid to draw your bath?” he asked awkwardly.

“I think I would have remembered that,” Davos noted with amusement. “And did I detect a plural of said handmaiden?”

“Right. Well, anyway – ”

“Anyway? I think I’d like to hear more about this conversatin’ with these ladies as they bathed you and played with your hair,” Davos interrupted gleefully.

“It doesn’t matter.” They had more important things to go over. He put another piece of meat in his mouth and chewed irritably. “The flavor of this meat is quite unusual,” he said to change the subject. “What do you suppose they hunt here?”

Davos swallowed his mouthful and nodded to Jon’s plate. “Well, that’s horsemeat.”

Jon froze mid chew. Then promptly opened his mouth and let the masticated piece fall to his plate.

“They eat their horses?” he asked in shock, before taking a gulp of his wine to wash out the taste.

“People eat all sorts of things when that’s all there is,” Davos noted wisely.

Jon thought about some of the strange things he’d eaten while with the freefolk. “Aye, I suppose they do.”

“So, did you notice the caves?” Davos asked as he took another bite of his horsemeat.

“I did,” Jon followed. “Right on the beach. That’s promising.” He thought of the small map that Sam had drawn and he now carried with him. The deposits seemed to be directly under the fortress. “Do you think they’ll let us explore them?”

“It all depends on what news the queen received. She’s already started her war with Cersei and they’re obviously in the thick of it. Let’s hope you get another chance to meet with her tomorrow.”

“Perhaps I’ll keep any mention of the Night King out of the next one,” Jon suggested, feeling defeated again. He needed her dragons. They were bloody massive, the reality of them more incredible than anything he might have imagined as a boy.

“Aye, let’s try a practical approach.” Davos held his chalice aloft again. “For now, let us enjoy this most excellent wine, this lovely feast, and not having been burned to a crisp.”

Jon raised his cup and saluted the toast. It was very good wine, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last few chapters have been quite bleak for our Jonno. I felt like he needed a little breather and went for something lighter in tone this time. Hope you enjoyed it. Dany will finally make her appearance up next. As will Arya.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I sometimes use the Westerosi Name Generator to help with all the minor characters, as its dead useful. I realized after doing some research, however, that there's a Jhiqui in the books (and in a few season 1 episodes of the show) that I'd forgotten about. Since we never find out what happened to her, Zhiqi here wasn't meant to be the same person. However, Ornela absolutely was a character we meet in the show - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PH5JjuaeVX4  
> I liked the actress and wanted to use her here.
> 
> There is just LOADS of show dialog in this chapter, so I am just calling out credit to Benioff, Weiss, and Cogman as I borrow liberally from 7X03 and 04 as well as some older episodes.
> 
> I also find it amusing, as I went hunting for pictures of Dany's braids, that I was not the only person who imagined Jon with Dothraki braids, lol. 
> 
> As always, much gratitude to firesign for her help.

**.xxi**

He was sleeping, lost in the dark as he struggled to open his eyes. Then he heard the voice again, a warm burr in his ear.

_“I wish I could be here when you wake up. I’m going north with Uncle Benjen. I’m taking the black. I know we always talked about seeing the Wall together, but you’ll be able to come visit me at Castle Black when you’re better.”_

_I’ll be better!_ he wanted to scream, his eyelids so heavy, just like the rest of him.

_“I’ll know my way around by then. I’ll be a sworn brother of the Night’s Watch. We can go out walking beyond the Wall if you’re not afraid.”_

A kiss pressed sweetly to his forehead. The boy wanted to call to Jon, to tell him that he wasn’t afraid, that he wanted to go with him, but the three-eyed raven wouldn’t leave him alone.

_And then out of the darkness there was a man coming towards him. Only he wasn’t a man anymore but the dead husk of one, its mind gone. It took the sword out of its belly, where Jon had rammed it in a moment ago and came for him. He felt his hand burn when Jon threw the lamp at it, setting it on fire, Mormont looking on._

_The faces changed, and then it was the resigned look of a man who’d just been speared through, eyes focused on him, and close enough that he could feel the man’s breath. “We are the watchers on the Wall,” he said in his last gasp, before falling over. The binds around his wrists had been cut free and then a girl with red, fiery hair came to him. “Come along, Jon Snow,” she said, as she walked him along to the edge of the cliff. “Time to meet the king beyond the Wall.”_

_But instead of a king, he sees the man called Locke, walking through the woods. He sees Jon. “Brothers,” Locke calls and Jon comes over. “How many men”?” “Eleven,” he tells them. “There’s a hut on the west side of the Keep, we should steer clear of it.”_

_“Why?” Jon asks. But he knows why. “There were some hounds chained up inside. Closer we can get without the dogs sniffing us the better.”_

The scene changed and the man was dead on the ground, a jagged bone popped free of his neck as Hodor moaned on, he’d remembered the way it had snapped in his hands.

Bran felt his stomach on the hard, snowy ground as he watched Jon jump back into the fray of fighting men outside of Craster’s Keep, the mutineers being slaughtered for their crimes. “Jon,” he uttered. He crawled forward, dragging his body as quickly as he could through the snow. “Jon!” Suddenly, Jojen was there and kneeling beside him. “If he sees you, he won’t let you go north.” But the boy wanted to go to Jon. _“He’s my brother,” Bran tells Jojen. “He wants to protect you. He’ll take you back to Castle Black. You have to decide. Do you want to find the Three Eyed Raven?” No, he doesn’t._ _He sees Jon looking around at the chaos, sees him running into the Keep. The boy doesn’t want to leave him._

The bits and pieces of the memories fly by, intertwined with the Raven’s eye, and then Bran is standing, and this is where he’s happiest, walking and moving in the past. He’s at the top of the Broken Tower again. He keeps coming here in his dreams. Only this time he hears Cersei beside him. “He saw us!” she yells. He turns his head to see himself, just a boy, standing on wobbly legs in the window as a hand clutches a fistful of his jerkin, the hand that appears in his dreams so often. But now he can see who is on the end of that hand. Jaime Lannister looks over to the boy, asks him how old he is. “Ten,” the boy says. The knight looks back to his sister. “The things I do for love,” the man says casually before pushing him out. Then Bran is falling, like he has a thousand times.

The wind rushes around him, the top of the tower speeding away, he feels his legs kicking, and then just as he’s about to hit the ground, just as he’s ready to feel his back break again, the scene changes –

_And then he was underwater, being dragged under. He was screaming, his hand reaching for the surface as it moved farther away, dead faces around him, fingers like pincers digging in his flesh as they pulled him down, and he only wanted to go to her, didn’t want to go to that black place anymore. She’d come for him, had come to save them. Had saved him. He tried to breathe –_

And then a great gasp of air came out of him as he sat up in his bed, eyes flashing back to this body’s sight again.

“Jon,” Bran whispered into the dark.

* * *

_I am the last Targaryen, Jon Snow. Honor the pledge your ancestor made to mine. Or I will burn you alive._

Jon awoke, drawing in a long breath as his eyes snapped open to the dark. His head felt as though it had a hammer to his skull, his vision blurry, but he heard the call of a dragon again, a long screeching cry that he felt in his chest as the sound of waves crashing the beach came through the open side of his chambers. He hazily remembered that he and Davos had had too much wine with their dinner. What he couldn’t recall was how he’d made it to bed, but it was difficult to summon up the memory when his eyes were pulsing from the tightness of his face and the echoing of her voice _. I am the last Targaaryen, Jon Snow._ Amidst the waves and the cries and the pounding, however, he heard the soft shuffle of footsteps along the stone floor of his room.

He sat up with a start, instantly grabbing for his sword from the wall beside him but then he remembered. Longclaw had been taken. Jon whipped his head around to scan the chambers and see who had come for him, fists at his side as he prepared for a fight.

“Who’s there?” he called darkly.

A _scritch_ and then a flame lit up the corner of the room, over by the window panes where someone was lighting the candle in the concave shell of the stone wall. The light filled the space and it filtered to the rest of the chambers. Jon could see Ornela standing in front of the candle’s warming glow and then she was walking towards him. She wore a plain sleeveless shift, one that fell just past her knees, and her hair was down.

“Ornela, what are you doing here?” he asked as she came to his bed. Then she was peeling his sheets back with a smile.

“ _Khal_ Jon,” she said thickly. “I take you.” She climbed into his bed, her hands already on him.

“Wait.” He took hold of her wrists to still her, his forehead pained with the incessant beating against his brain. Her smile dimmed, eyes flashing as she looked down where he held her. “Why are you here?” he asked again blearily.

“You put inside me,” she told him, moving her hand to cup his cock even while his grip was still on her. “You need woman. Khaleesi say you on sea for moon.”

“You don’t have to do that. It’s all right,” he soothed as he moved her hand away gently. She was a sweet girl. But it seemed the Dothraki approached sex much like the wildlings.

She didn’t seem to believe him, however, and soon she was lifting her shift over her hips and pulling it over her head. Jon felt a sudden strong yearning for Sansa, seeing her disrobe for him in his mind just as this girl was doing, recalling how enthusiastic his sister was when she came to him, and then Ornela was smiling as she reached for him and that powerful shame rose up in Jon for a startling, brutal moment. He felt locked in some bizarre cycle he couldn’t understand. This kept happening to him even though he never asked for it. Ornela was lithe as she straddled him, her warm honeyed skin inviting as she took his hand and put it to her small breast encouragingly. He cupped it for a moment, caressing her as she bent her head towards him, but then he willed his senses back, dragging his hand away from her.

“Ornela, I can’t,” he told her.

The girl sat back on his bed beside him, studying him in the soft light. She looked bothered. “You no want me?”

He breathed in deeply at the question. His body was vibrating as he let his gaze linger over her. Of course he wanted her; he could feel the heat of her skin infusing him just sitting next to her. Even with his headache, he felt a crawling need in his insides.

“I do, I want you very much, but that shouldn’t matter.” He held her by the arm and smiled. “You don’t have to come to me to … to please me as if it’s your duty. That’s not why I came here.”

She frowned at him, before looking down in his lap where his nightshirt was tucked back. Ornela ran soft hands over the hardness of his cock again. “You let me take and I make you free,” she promised. Then she dipped her head and kissed him and it was sweet, and tender, and hungry. He grabbed for the sides of her face to keep himself steady and then her tongue was in his mouth and Jon wanted more of it, wanted to feel someone pressed against him. Her hands were on his head, stroking the tight braids there, and the strangeness of it brought him back to himself. He knew what he was.

Jon pulled back, separating from her so he could suck in some air. “I would love nothing more, than for you to make me free,” he said sadly. He shook his head to her, a pang in his heart. He was too wretched for her to touch, he wouldn’t taint her.

“So you let me.” Ornela reached for him once more but he stopped her, his hands up to ward her off.

“No. I'm so sorry. I don’t think we should.” _We should_ , he heard Ygritte say.

She sat on the backs of her thighs and shrewdly considered him.

“He no like,” she said ominously.

Jon narrowed his eyes at her. “Who won’t?” The suggestion that someone had sent her to lay with him sobered Jon up in a hurry.

She shrugged. “Little man. He say to make pretty _khal_ feel good.”

“Lord _Tyrion_ told you to come to my bed?” The information shocked him. What was Tyrion hoping to discover by plying him with wine and women? Or was it simply to make him malleable? He was disturbed by the manner with which the queen’s Hand had gone about it, however. The girl was no whore. And he was no green boy.

“I want to,” she told him in her clipped accent.

The ache in his head was still persistent, a low thudding behind his eyes. “Ornela, perhaps you could … you could help me another way?” He bent across the bed to retrieve her shift from behind her and bunched it between his hands so he could bring the top over her head. When her head and arms poked through the holes, she looked at him suspiciously. He gave her a trusting smile in return.

“How I help?”

Several minutes later they were both on the balcony where she knelt behind him on a long chair, unraveling the first braid with nimble fingers. The moon wasn’t yet full but it cast its bright light over the Blackwater and Jon could see the white caps of the waves as they rushed to the shore. Stars twinkled boldly, so many stars scattered across the sky it appeared as a sea of diamonds. A black body flew by to block them out and soared over the castle as he watched, the breeze bathing his face.

“Drogon hungry,” she said.

“He must eat quite a lot,” Jon commented. How much livestock could a dragon go through in a single day? And she had three of them. It was surely a costly expenditure to maintain them.

“Is good Khaleesi have many enemy.” Ornela tugged his hair as she worked, but Jon turned his face to the side, trying to catch her expression.

“She has them fed to her dragons?” Not a good way to be executed.

“Only if they ugly,” Ornela said with some seriousness. After a beat, she gave him a slow grin before bending down to kiss his nose. Jon grinned too, seeing her jape.

“You’re just teasing me. Do I sound ignorant?”

“He no eat you.”

Jon thought of Daenerys and her swift change upon receiving Lord Varys’s news. He wondered again what had happened, how it might impact his mission. “Do you know what she plans to do to me then?” he asked with a sigh, not expecting a response. There were too many things that he needed to be doing and waiting around for this queen’s decision could prove maddening.

“Maybe _she_ eat you, Jon,” Ornela teased with another smug smile.

“Aye, maybe she will.”

The pulse behind his eyes was dimming the more braids that Ornela untwined. The headache from all the wine would persist until morning, no doubt. But he had something of interest to ponder and his thoughts went back to Tyrion and what had prompted the Lannister to join up with his queen, beyond revenge. What was he hoping for?

Jon watched another one of the beasts fly across the moon and imagined Daenerys on its back, bringing an army fire and blood.

* * *

Standing on the bluffs, Jon gazed across the sea wondering again where they took his ship and what he would have to do to get it back. He had foolishly hoped it might reappear with the morning, staying on the balcony talking with Ornela for a good part of the night until the sky had begun to lighten with the dawn.

She had come back to help him dress after his morning cleansing and Jon had resigned himself to it. For a brief moment, he missed Hollis, missed the easy conversation. But Ornela seemed to take her duties seriously as she tended to his many fastenings and layers, even insisting she strap him in his cloak. When he opened his door, the guard there looked him over before stepping aside. It was early still, and the cavernous halls were empty as he made his way to the outside.

The wind knocked him about as he stood there, cape fluttering madly, his mind in just as much of a whirlwind and still feeling the effects of the drinking from the night before. Jon had left Davos alone to get some much needed sleep but he’d been unable to get any rest for himself. At least the familiar bun on the back of his head was comfortable. Ornela had complained as she smoothed his hair back, insisting that he’d looked better with the braids Zhiqi had given him, but he was content to have some measure of control over his appearance at least.

He saw a small figure coming down to the path towards him and turned away, his sight back on the ocean. He was miffed by Tyrion’s games and not in the mood to discuss the reasoning behind them; it all seemed such a waste of the precious time they had left. If only he could get others to understand that their days were numbered. The grass crunched as the Hand to the queen came closer.

“I came down here to brood over my failure to predict the Greyjoy attack. You’re making it difficult. You look a lot better brooding than I do. You make me feel like I’m failing at brooding over failing,” Tyrion informed him.

“I’m a prisoner on this island,” Jon stated sullenly. This much was plain.

“I wouldn’t say you’re a prisoner on this island. You’re free to walk the castle, the beaches, to go wherever you want.”

“Except my ship. You took my ship.”

“I wouldn’t say we took your ship.”

The conversation was annoying him and he said as much. Tyrion lobbed his complaints back at him and Jon only grew more frustrated. He needed to get off the island if he was to help his people. He didn’t have time for this queen’s useless war.

“It’s hard for me to fathom, it really is!” he exclaimed. But did any of them believe anything he’d said? Did it all sound like the ranting of a mad man? “You probably don’t believe me,” he finished.

“I do, actually,” Tyrion said.

“You didn’t before. Grumpkins and snarks you called them, do you remember?” He felt the need to remind Tyrion that they’d had the beginnings of a good friendship once upon a time, no matter what had happened to them since. “You said it was all nonsense.”

“It was nonsense,” Tyrion agreed, nodding his head. “Everybody knew it. But then Mormont saw them, and you saw them. And I trust the eyes of an honest man more than I trust what everybody knows.”

And there it was, plainly stated, what he would continually come up against. How to convince everyone that an enemy they didn’t believe in was on its way to kill them all? Tyrion thought it a good question.

“I know it’s a good question, I’m looking for an answer.” To everything. The sense of futility was digging in its talons to take hold of him again.

“People’s minds aren’t made for problems that large. White Walkers, the Night King and the army of the dead. It’s almost a relief to confront a comfortable, familiar monster like my sister.”

But Jon didn’t need to be drawn into a debate about monsters, and the defeat of his mission settled into his limbs and back, tiring him already. He was needed at home if these people were going to be of no help. The failure ate at Jon and Sansa’s face appeared to him, her eyes blazing, and he felt the fool again to have to concede that her warnings had been right, that he’d made the same mistake as his father.

“Children are not their fathers. Luckily for all of us,” Tyrion noted wisely. “And sometimes there’s more to foreign invaders and Northern fools than meets the eye.”

Jon eyed him with suspicion but Tyrion went on to defend Daenerys and the people who followed her, and Jon could see the allegiance there was sincere, that Tyrion truly believed in her, which was something, he supposed.

“While you’re our guest here, you might consider asking them what they think of the Mad King’s daughter. She protects people from monsters. Just as you do. It’s why she came here. And she’s not about to head north to fight an enemy she’s never seen on the word of a man she doesn’t know. After a single meeting? It’s not a reasonable request to ask.”

Tyrion made some sense there, but Jon wasn’t of a mind to stay around as her guest, imprisoned or otherwise. His thoughts turned to how to get his ship back, how to get Daenerys to allow him to return home, and so he began to walk away, sensing that the discussion was at an impasse.

“So do you have anything reasonable to ask?”

Jon stalled his departure, brought up short by the question. He turned to gauge Tyrion’s attitude, trying to discern what new game the man meant to play. “What do you mean?” he asked with a weary impatience.

“Maybe you are a Northern fool,” Tyrion quipped. “I’m asking if there’s something I _can_ do to help you?”

Jon regarded him with some humility. The alliance wasn’t the only thing they’d come for, he remembered, his focus back on the greater task at hand. They still needed weapons. Glancing down to the beach where the caves began, Jon decided this trip might be salvaged after all, that perhaps Tyrion’s offer held no guile.

“Alright then, fine,” he said. He came back to stand before the Hand. “I need a natural resource from this island.”

Tyrion turned curious. “You do? Then why not begin with that?”

“Because I’m a bit irritated,” he complained loudly. “I didn’t appreciate being blindsided yesterday. You could have told me she wanted me to bend the knee and saved me a trip. Your sister gave me that courtesy, at least.”

Tyrion widened his eyes, his demeanor changing to one of sheepishness. “But surely you prepared for such an outcome? Sansa must have raised the possibility. I was trying to be … sensitive about it. I apologize if you mistook my meaning. I think you joining Daenerys would make for a good alliance, something you’re both in need of. But she _is_ the rightful queen of the Seven Kingdoms. I was not prepared for … fighting dead men to be the premise of your negotiations.”

“She told me I was in open rebellion,” he said hotly. “And then takes my ship. And _you_ … you send me a woman in the night as if that would make me more amenable to your queen’s demands. What am I supposed to think?”

“I – I didn’t send her for that,” Tyrion insisted. He flailed his hands towards the ocean while defending his actions. “It was a long journey. I simply thought you might wish to unwind with sex; that is all – as most men would after such travel. I did not set out to offend you.”

“The girl said Daenerys saved her. Treating her like a bed slave doesn’t seem like much of a protection.”

“Alright, so it was a bad idea. But she was more than willing, I would add. I asked her, I did not demand it of her.”

Jon sighed mightily in his indignation. This was taking him away from the reason they were there. “Fine. Don’t do it again, please. And I would like to make sure my men are all right.”

“Of course. You are free to go see them. Your ship is only on the other side of the island, moored in the inlet between us and the mainland. We didn’t destroy it.” He looked to Jon with some guilt. “So, now that we’ve established that you don’t want any women in your bed, I ask you again – what else did you come here for besides an army to fight your White Walkers?”

“Dragonglass."

“What?”

“Its obsidian, a type of volcanic glass,” he explained, scanning his mind for more facts from Sam. “I believe in Old Valyria it was known as frozen fire. We discovered that there are rich deposits of it here under the caves.”

“All right.” Tyrion worried his brow while he considered the request. “And why do you need this dragonglass?”

“Whatever properties it possesses, the glass can destroy the White Walkers and the dead.” Jon took in the expanse of ocean and the land around him. It was a beautiful place, and he thought selfishly for a moment that staying here for a reprieve while they mined for the glass could be helpful to his bruised and battered mind. “One of my closest friends was able to kill one that way. If Daenerys will allow us to mine it, we can forge weapons from it to aid us in this approaching war.”

“I see. And that was it?”

Jon laughed sarcastically at the question, as if these requests were a mere indulgence on his part. “Yes. That was it. Other than having her and her dragons join us. We just need a fighting chance to beat them.”

“Well, then. I will take this request to our Queen immediately,” he said. Tyrion raised an eyebrow. “And if she will do this for you?”

He sighed again, with a droop to his shoulders. “One thing at a time, Tyrion,” he cautioned. “Let’s see what she says first.”

Tyrion pondered his reply a moment before he started to walk away. He suddenly stopped and turned back to Jon. “Oh, and the queen would have you and Ser Davos join us for dinner this evening. Regardless of the outcome, try to be on your best behaviour.”

“I think I can manage,” Jon said dryly, his gaze back on the sea. But a tiny thrill fluttered in his belly. He would see her up close again. He closed his eyes and dared to hope that things might turn around.

******

“And your sister? How was Lady Sansa able to reunite with you?”

Jon was seated at the long table in the queen’s solar, in the middle of raising a glass of wine to his lips when he froze at Tyrion’s question.

“My lord?”

They’d been discussing Jon’s ascension to Lord Commander, after Jon had explained how he’d come to know Davos, telling the tale of Stannis’s army riding in to save the Night’s Watch while Jon was in the camp of the wildlings playing an unsuccessful assassin. The sudden intrusion of Sansa into the conversation had him feeling immediately awkward. Tyrion had been wed to her, after all, and Jon certainly didn’t need to hear Tyrion talk any more about that little detail.

“She joined you at Castle Black, yes? I imagine her escape was quite harrowing, and it’s a long ride from Winterfell, as I recall,” he said with some care, putting his glass down as he nodded to Jon. “I never trusted Lord Bolton, but his bargain with my father to turn against your house was shocking nonetheless. I’ve only recently been informed, however,” he said glancing to Varys, “that his bastard son was apparently even more repugnant.”

“I’m afraid that would be putting it mildly,” Jon replied with a grim smile.

“Surely not as awful as my dear departed nephew,” Tyrion added sarcastically.

“I only ever saw your nephew when you came to Winterfell and never uttered a word to him,” Jon noted, “So I can’t speak to the comparison, but my sister … she’s shared a few stories from her time in King’s Landing.” He set his glass down too, mindful of its effect on him. He didn’t want to make a fool of himself in front of Daenerys by the time she deigned to join them. “The Boltons flayed men and women alive. A nasty practice. I think that alone wins him some points over Joffrey’s cruelty. But he did worse.” Jon’s shrug was ambivalent as he thought of the toll on his family. “Joffrey killed my father, and the Boltons killed my brothers. I don’t dwell on their distinctions, really.”

Tyrion, however, seemed determined to talk about Sansa. “The Lady Stark made it to you in one piece, so that’s something. She’s a strong girl. I saw her suffer through many things at court and she withstood it all. She’s a survivor.”

Jon didn’t want to discuss his sister’s mistreatment and so he merely nodded. “I suppose you could say that about everyone here,” he acknowledged. “How you managed to flee the black cells of the Red Keep and make your way to Essos is another fascinating tale, I’m sure.” He glanced to Lord Varys, who was studying him quietly, hands tucked into the opposing cuffs of his voluminous sleeves while his wine sat untouched. The man unnerved Jon. His bald pate and portly frame were the antithesis to Baelish but Jon still saw them the same – sly foxes in a den of wolves.

Davos sat to his right as they both listened to Tyrion go on about being boxed in a crate and having to force his shit out of a hole. The conversation remained subdued as they all waited for Daenerys to grace them with her company, Tyrion avoiding all talk of their war plans. It had become obvious that her Unsullied were off to take part in another battle, but their destination remained unknown. Jon felt a nervous energy vibrating inside him, his leg jiggling as he reviewed the events from earlier in the day.

After Tyrion had left him on the beach to speak to his queen, Jon had gone to find Davos and they broke their fast together. Testing the claim that they weren’t prisoners, they’d gone for an initial tour of the castle, Davos showing Jon all the rooms of interest that he remembered. The Dothraki left them alone to wander and Jon began to feel a little less threatened as they took a look around the grounds.

It was when he’d gone out to the battlement steps to watch the dragons flying overhead that he’d noticed her out there alone doing the same, standing by one of the fire towers. Jon thanked his good luck to have another chance to connect with her. And while her reception had still been a bit frosty, she had agreed to let him mine the glass. For that he was grateful.

_People thought dragons were gone forever but here they are. Perhaps we should be examining what we think we know._

It had been obvious she’d been talking to her Hand, Jon could hear the man’s influence in her capitulation, but it was an attitude that had given him some hope, the notion blooming that perhaps they could still come to an alliance and he could win her over to his cause. He had thanked her for the opportunity, a bit of weight lifted off his shoulders as he thought of the bounty he could bring back to his people.

“So you believe me then? About the army of the dead?”

She’d kept her gaze on her dragons soaring the sky. “You’d better get to work, Jon Snow _.”_

Jon had nodded, prepared to leave when something had made him turn back. “Back at Winterfell, my sister Sansa, and all my bannermen and advisors told me not to come here. They said you’d never let me leave,” he’d confessed. It meant a lot to him that she’d agreed to this and he’d wanted her to understand that.

“Maybe they were right,” she’d said, her expression stone-faced. Jon had paused, waiting a beat to see if she’d been joking. He had hoped it was. Their talk had held an intimate thread to it as Jon had found it much easier to talk to her outside the fortress walls than in the formidable setting of her throne room. He caught just the tiniest hint of a smile before he left.

But there in the dining room, Tyrion had been in the middle of explaining that there was indeed such a thing as a cock merchant and that, no, their wares did not include foul when the beautiful woman whose task it was to herald Daenerys’s presence walked into the room. Jon immediately stood. Tyrion stopped what he was saying and turned to her, taking the moment to stand as well, along with Davos and Varys.

“My lords, and your Grace, the Mother of Dragons will dine with you now.”

She stepped aside and then Daenerys herself came through the curtains. 

Jon sucked in a hard breath.

The presentation was quite different from earlier in the afternoon. Daenerys walked into their intimate gathering dressed in a stunning gown of silver and navy silk, her shoulders bare with the top of her bodice stiffened in heavy brocade, one which left some space between her skin and where it bordered her clavicle. An arch was cut out in the center of the dark blue of the skirt, pleats in silvery silk peeking through, another soft note in her armor. Her plaits still wrapped her head like a crown, but long swathes of that platinum white hair hung down the front of her breasts, in stark contrast to the dark color of her dress. The gown had no sleeves and Jon stared at the pale flesh of her arms and shoulders, a sudden suggestion in his mind that it would be so soft to the touch. As soon as he thought it, he dropped his head, staring down at his plate. It was inappropriate to think such things of the queen. He had a mission to carry out. She’d been generous to grant them access to the obsidian. He wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize that.

“Thank you for joining me, my lords,” she said as Tyrion pulled out her chair for her to take her seat at the head of the table. Her companion came to sit on Jon’s and Davos’s side, and Davos quickly pulled out his seat for the woman, placing her in between them. Daenerys sat down and immediately a procession of Dothraki women came through the same entrance, carrying tureens and trays brimming with food. Jon and the rest of them took their seat as well, and he smiled graciously to the woman on his right. Missandei’s dress was similar to the outfit she’d greeted them in, and he noticed she still wore breeches underneath her split skirt, a most interesting fashion staple among the women. Jon admired the style, knowing how much his little sister had chafed against the dresses she’d often been forced to wear.

When he turned his head, Daenerys was looking straight at him.

“And how are your accommodations, Jon Snow? Satisfactory, I hope?”

“Yes, very much so, Your Grace,” Jon replied. He glanced up in surprise when he caught Ornela and Zhiqi with the servants laying out the dishes. Ornela was watching him with the stirrings of a smile on her lips. “I – I am afforded a most stunning view of the Blackwater,” he continued, drawing his eyes back to her, “where your dragons make a regular appearance overhead. It’s quite an experience, to be awakened by their cries.”

“My children have felt at home here,” Daenerys commented, her expression softening. “They enjoy taking their naps along the cliffs.” She looked pleased to be able to discuss them.

“They do indeed,” Tyrion noted. “I imagine there is a pull to this place, where their ancestors once lived. Aegon the first chose wisely if he considered the island’s terrain as a place for them to frolic. I’ve seen them take dives from those cliffs and plunge into the water, only to jettison from its depths and reach incredible heights in the clouds.”

“Yes, a veritable playground for them, I’m sure,” Lord Varys added smoothly, his eyes still on Jon.

“I suspect Balerion the Dread would have preferred it to the Red Keep,” Jon said, changing the conversation. “They said its wingspan was so large it engulfed entire villages in its shadow when it passed overhead. That must have been a sight for the smallfolk; to witness such a beast flying over Harrenhal to release Aegon’s fury. Imagine seeing Aegon atop Balerion, his sister wives on their own dragons at either side, as they came together for the Field of Fire.” He nodded towards Tyrion. “Together, they burned four thousand Lannister soldiers in a single battle. What kind of legacy will your own dragons leave, I wonder, Your Grace?”

“You sound quite knowledgeable on Aegon and his dragons,” Daenerys said, her eyes flashing.

“Aye.” Jon felt a rise in him at the inference that he had no understanding of such things, as if he were some rube who had no place here at this table. He thought of her words at that first greeting. “I actually _did_ receive a formal education, Your Grace, even as a bastard. History was one of my favorite subjects and I did quite well. Growing up, tales of the Targaryen dynasty were popular with me and my siblings, and Aegon’s battles were often re-enacted between us in the courtyard.”

Her eyes darkened. “That must have been nice,” she said coolly as she gazed down at the roasted quail a servant scooped onto her plate. “I only ever had my brother as my family. We were too busy fleeing from one place to another, running from assassins, to spend any time doing frivolous things like play games.”

Jon was instantly ashamed at his defensiveness and he bowed his head to her. “I apologize, Your Grace, if I’ve dredged up any unpleasant memories. I was only keen to illustrate that your family’s history had been of long standing interest to me.” He didn't know what else he should say, afraid he'd come on too strong, and so reached for his wine. There was an awkward silence that followed as Jon felt her eyes on him while he drank.

“And how have you adjusted to your birthplace, Your Grace?” Davos asked. “This fortress can sometimes feel quite isolated, cut off from everything else that’s happening on the mainland,” he noted. “It can provide a good distance and yet also feel distancing, at the same time.”

“That’s very astute, Ser Davos,” Daenerys said, lifting her glass by its stem. “I hear that you yourself spent a bit of time on Dragonstone. It’s a good place to plan, I agree. But of course, I don’t intend to stay here.” She took a sip with her eyes still on Davos and Tyrion took the moment to jump in as the Dothraki women continued to make their way around the table.

“Yes, well, with the next phase of our attack on Cersei underway, we should hopefully be closer to that eventuality within the fortnight,” he said.

“And what of Winterfell, Your Grace?” Lord Varys interjected, looking to Jon with suspicion. “As you prepare for this … _attack_ heading your way, I hear that Lord Baelish has lent part of House Arryn’s army to the effort. That he brought the Knights of the Vale north to help you recapture your home from the Boltons.” His expression turned wide-eyed, play acting at innocence. “I imagine your sister was critical in gaining that alliance.”

Jon felt his face go hot at the implication and paused before commenting, the mention of Sansa once again inciting a flood of combating emotions. What did Varys know? All eyes had gone to him as they waited for him to answer and he felt at war trying to keep his composure.

“My sister … she’s known Lord Baelish for a long time. Since she was a young girl first arriving to King’s Landing,” he said carefully. “He has proven to be a valuable ally to House Stark, of that there is no question. I’d be curious, however, to know what else you’ve heard, Lord Varys.”

“Only that he has more men on the way to your stronghold,” Varys continued.

“Yes, he made the offer to me well before I left,” Jon said, recovering. “The Vale army is some twenty thousand strong, and most of them have stayed behind with their young lord. Still, four thousand is no small sum.”

“No, it is not. But I would be wary of the man if I were you, Your Grace. Lord Baelish is much more dangerous than he appears.”

“I am aware of his reputation, Lord Varys,” Jon shot back, his tone not quite measured. “But I thank you for the warning all the same.”

At that moment, a hand brushed against the back of his neck and Jon jerked at the contact, turning to see Ornela had come up behind him to serve him his entrée. He leaned back to allow her room to spoon the small quail and his vegetables to his plate as individual conversations hummed around him, Zhiqi at his other side between him and Missandei to pour him more wine. She looked to him with an arch of her eyebrow and then pointedly glanced to the top of his head to denote her displeasure with the removal of his braids, giving a little shake of her head. Ornela only smiled to him, a wanton promise held in her eyes. Jon felt suddenly uncomfortable with their attention and he grabbed for his wine glass again to gulp his nerves away, feeling every set of eyes at the table turn to him to watch the interaction.

Tyrion went back to the discussion as the women moved on from his plate. “As Lord Protector of the Vale, Baelish wields much power, but he only grants favors to those who can provide him more of it,” Tyrion said, his brow creased as he nursed his wine. “Are you sure you trust him alone with your sister?”

“I do not,” Jon admitted with another forced smile. “Only a fool would be willing to do so. But,” and at that, he turned to face Daenerys. “I trust my sister, the Lady Stark. And we both understood that with this invitation, it was important that I come to see you myself, Your Grace. To impress upon you what we all face if we do not work together.” He raised his wine glass. “And so I thank you again for allowing us to mine for the obsidian we need. A toast to your generosity, Your Grace.”

“Here, here,” Davos piped in on the other side of Missandei, raising his glass as well.

“Yes, to a promising beginning,” Tyrion added. “Of what will hopefully become a strong partnership for the future.”

They all toasted her and Daenerys raised her glass with them, a half smile gracing the side of her mouth.

“You must let me know when you make your discovery,” Daenerys told him after her sip. “I should be interested to see what this dragonglass looks like.”

“Of course, Your Grace. It will be my honour.” Jon held her gaze for a moment and smiled genuinely. She was even more beautiful up close. The queen nodded back at him with a lingering look before picking up her fork and knife to enjoy her dinner. Jon noticed her shoulders again, how delicate she appeared, and was impressed by these two sides of her demeanor. His eyes traveled the line of her bodice as it stopped just above her breasts, providing a peak at the tops of them in a style that might have been scandalous in the court of Winterfell. He dropped his gaze to his food, realizing he was being rude, and began to cut up his dinner.

Once the servants had left, everyone was fully into their feast and the conversation turned to more benign pleasantries. Tyrion was eager to find out more about him, judging by the constant shifting gazes in his direction, but it was Daenerys watching him keenly that had Jon keeping his eyes to his food, willing the heat in his face away.

“Your handmaidens have taken a liking to you,” she said suddenly.

Jon looked up guiltily. “What?”

Daenerys grinned, her laughter a tinkling note. “Don’t look so worried. I only meant to note that you left quite an impression on them. Zhiqi mentioned she’d done your hair. I admit that I was rather disappointed when I saw you on the battlements.”

“Oh,” he chuckled. “Yes, well, let us just say it was an interesting experiment.” He looked to her hair. “And certainly, I couldn’t possibly compare with yours.”

“Perhaps we’ll find out another time,” she said coquettishly, that half smile disarming.

“Perhaps,” he smiled back. He picked up his wine and took another drink, an effervescence rising into his chest like bubbles from the sea.

******

_So many men have tried to kill me, Jon Snow. I don’t remember all their names._

_Jon._

“What is it?”

Jon awoke with a start, muttering his question to Sansa as she got into bed with him. She hugged him close and Jon felt a momentary comfort as he hovered in sleep, before the despair set in with the cruel reminder that they shouldn’t be doing this and he opened his eyes. He peered into the semi-darkness of the room, the moonlight pouring in from the open window, a low flame in the brazier still. He wasn’t in his chambers. He wasn’t even in Winterfell. An arm was draped across his stomach and Jon reared his head back in alarm when he saw it was real not a dream. He glanced over his shoulder and heard steady breathing as someone slept behind him.

“Ornela?” he asked aloud.

“ _Mmm_ ,” she hummed, squeezing him closer. “ _Khal Jon,”_ she sighed.

He put his hand over her arm and stroked it reassuringly. “Ornela, you need to wake up.” She didn’t move. He patted her hand a few times. “Ornela, this isn’t … you shouldn’t be …”

He didn’t bother to finish. Jon doubted the Dothraki cared much about what was deemed appropriate behaviour between men and women. A vision of Ygritte flooded him, of her crawling under his covers as they slept in camp under the stars, the way she’d reached for him, dragging her coat away so he could lay with her. She hadn’t cared if the others in their group had heard them fucking, she’d only wanted him. And then Jon thought of Sansa again, felt her arm wrapped around him the night they’d named him king.

Having the girl at his back, her body warming him through his nightshirt, he couldn’t deny it relaxed him. There had been no dead children to visit him here, Jon suddenly realized, no Night King to taunt him. He’d had a peaceful sleep both nights since he’d landed, and both times Ornela had stayed in his room.

Jon took a long breath and put a protective hand over her arm again, closing his eyes. Within a few minutes, he was asleep once more.

* * *

When he awoke again in the morning, it was to the call of a dragon. He heard the great flaps of its wings as it flew overhead and close to his side of the fortress. Jon sat up swiftly, glancing about the room before he looked to the other side of his bed. Ornela was gone, leaving just him under rumpled sheets. It was an odd thing, her visit – she’d only slept next to him and nothing more, yet Jon felt somewhat restored by the contact. Just having someone to hold him through the night was a powerful influence on his mind, his demons feeling at bay for the first time in a long while.

He got up to piss in his chamber pot, then to cleanse himself at the washing station to the right of his door. When he came out to get dressed, Ornela had returned with Zhiqi and they had brought him something to eat. The ladies turned to greet him with their knowing smiles, and Zhiqi went ahead to the table to set down her tray. Ornela took hold of his hand and made him follow her.

“Good morning,” he said to them both. They looked to each other and grinned again, as Ornela pulled out a seat for him to sit. He looked down to his partial manner of dress. “Um, perhaps I should put on some pants first.” The women giggled warmly with each other and Zhiqi went to lay out his clothes for the day.

“You sleep good,” Ornela said shyly, setting down a bowl of a porridge-like meal for him, the color resembling pumpkin. It was covered in cinnamon and butter, a flat disc of what appeared to be hot bread beside it.

“Thank you,” Jon said in reply, not knowing quite what to say. Zhiqi brought him a pair of breeches and Jon quickly slid them on, tucking his shirt in while Ornela tightened his laces. He sat down to eat while Ornela walked to the cabinet of shelves and took hold of a gold comb, making her way back to stand behind him as she began combing his hair. Jon had never been so pampered in his life.

“How do you say _good morning_ in Dothraki?” he asked out of curiosity.

“Good morning?” Zhiqi repeated slowly, looking confused.

“Yes. What do you say to each other when you greet someone as the day has begun?”

“ _Aena shekhikhi,”_ Ornela answered, leaning over him.

“Anna sha-keekee?” he echoed, the pronunciation not sounding quite right.

“No, _aena shekhikhi,”_ she repeated again, much faster and harder.

“Or you say, _hash yer dothrae chek asshekh_?” Zhiqi added.

“Uh,” Jon wasn’t going to attempt that last one this early. “Ayna shekhikhi,” he tried again.

“Is better.” Ornela leaned down again over his shoulder to smile broadly at him as she swept his hair back into his bun, tying it tightly away from his face.

“What did you say?” he asked Zhiqi. She had his shirt and tunic laid out on the bed, swiping her hands down them with a cloth to remove any wrinkles. “Is that another greeting?”

“Is to say how you go,” she explained.

“I don’t understand.”

“You say, do you ride good? This how you say, _greeting_.”

“Oh, I see. As in, how is one’s day? How is it going? That sort of thing?”

The women seemed to enjoy his questions and grew increasingly chattier the more words they tried to share with him. Jon found the language harsh in his throat and he didn’t have quite the grasp of its guttural inflections but made the attempt anyway.

“You _lajak haj,”_ Ornela told him. “You great warrior.”

_“La-shak hoshz.”_

They took pity on him with their teasing smiles, but he was in a good mood as he picked up a spoon to take another taste of his porridge. It was very grainy, but delicious, and Ornela flecked the top of it with cut up dates for him to enjoy. The flat bread was also tasty as he added more butter, and a sweet tea to wash it down with that featured a flavorful spice.

By the time he’d finished eating and was properly outfitted with his armor and boots, they’d taught him two more phrases, and Jon had moved on from relaxed to buoyantly cheerful, the women’s enthusiasm infectious.

A knock came at his door and he called for them to enter, Davos striding in with purpose a second later looking ready for a day of exploring. He came to an abrupt stop when he saw Jon and his handmaids.

“Davos! _M'athchomaroon!”_ he greeted him with a wide grin, pleased that he’d gotten it right. Ornela and Zhiqi clapped for him with much pride and his delight spread through him like warm honey.

“What did you call me?” Davos shot back in mock outrage. The women giggled as they clasped the last of his buckles, Ornela slicking back his hair once again.

“These generous ladies have been giving me some lessons,” he explained as Davos watched Ornela and Zhiqi flitter around him.

“For him, you say ‘ _Athchomar chomakaan’,”_ Zhiqi noted with a critical eye. “He no dothrakhqoyi.”

“Alright,” Jon said. “But neither am I. Also, the other one is easier to say.”

Once they were finished with him, the women began to clean his chambers, collecting his dishes, his linens, and Davos nodded his eagerness to head out. “Are we ready to find a boatload of dragonglass today?” It would be their first look into the caves.

“Aye,” he said. “I am. Let’s go.”

* * *

“So where do we start?”

They stood on the beach a few hundred yards down from the steps of Dragonstone, and Davos was already out of breath. The stairs extending from the castle went on forever, and even after they’d come through the great doors of the entrance gate there were more of them. Jon had asked for his royal guard to be allowed to meet them at the steps, from wherever they were keeping them, and it was a boisterous reunion when they found them below. The men were overjoyed to see their king was in one piece, and Jon was similarly relieved to hear that they’d been treated well – fed and given proper beds to rest.

Jon unfolded a piece of paper and took a look up ahead and then behind him back at the gates. “The mouth of that first cave,” he pointed, “near where we landed, seems to be closest to the cache in the map Sam drew for me, if you follow where its tunnels are likely to lead to,” he said, directing back to the fortress.

Davos came up next to Jon to take a look at the scrawled picture he held in his hands, the map rudimentary at best. “I think we might as well begin there. I’m ashamed to say, I never went exploring in any of them before so I’ve no idea just how big they get or how far they reach. But we’ll want to bring those torches with us. We don’t want to get lost in there.”

Kevven and Little Gabe hoisted the basket of torches between them and the party began to follow Jon towards the first cave entrance, the banter amongst them beginning in earnest. Davos was happy to see they were in good spirits, it only enforced the idea that they’d been taken care of and no harm had come to them.

“Did you see that one Dothraki bloke when they brought us out? He must have been seven foot at least. Bloody massive he was. And they say that the longer their braid, the more battles they’ve won, so he must have been through quite a lot. I surely wouldn’t want to come across the likes of him in a fight,” Jerrod nattered on.

“Aye, not with one of those swords they carry. Bet it takes a man’s head clean off,” Kevven noted.

“Oi, but did you see their women?” Little Gabe glanced around their group with wide eyes. “They barely wear clothes. When they came with supper, my eyes didn’t know where to look first.”

“Is that what you were wanking to last night?” Torren teased with a straight face. “You want to make sure not to rub it raw, mate. It might fall off.”

“Oh, aren’t you funny. As if –”

There was a sudden roar overhead and the men all ducked at once, Davos included, as they saw the leviathan body of one of the dragons soar over the cliff and towards the water. This one had a greenish cast to its scales, its wingspan blocking out the sun for a moment as it coasted on the wind. It seemed to take notice of them and it turned back towards them.

“ _Fookin’ ‘ell_ , it’s going to attack!” Little Gabe shouted, dropping to the ground. Davos watched in frozen terror as the dragon cruised right over them, he could feel the rush of warm air from under its wings hit his body, reminding him of the breeze that had swept off the burning crosses that used to line the shore. The dragon soared further down the beach before circling back.

“What do you think it’s doing?” one of the men cried in a panic. But Jon stood stiffly, watching its flight with a bold curiosity. As the dragon came back for another streak over their heads, it looked as if its sight was dead set on Jon, and Davos had half a mind to throw his body over his king’s as protection.

“Jon, get down!”

Jon stayed rooted to the spot as the dragon flew over him, his expression awed as he followed it, and then suddenly the dragon screeched loudly and Davos could feel it in the pit of his belly. Whether in greeting or in warning, he couldn’t tell, but there seemed something forlorn in its call. It circled them again, high above the cliff until it came to land on the top of the rock that traveled down to the mouth of the cave they were heading to. It cried out to them again and Jon began to walk towards it in earnest.

Davos sucked in a scared breath. “Oh, for _fook’s_ sake,” he hissed to himself, rising from the ground where he’d cowered to run towards Jon. “Your Grace!” he called. “Be careful!” Jon’s complete disinterest in preserving his life was a constant worry for Davos.

But the dragon sat watching them while Jon moved on ahead and it spurred the rest of them to get up and join him, if only in duty. When they arrived at the slanted mouth of the cave, the dragon took off, heading inland, and Davos let out the breath he’d been holding as they all clustered around Jon.

“What do you suppose that was about?” Torren asked.

“He was showing us where to go,” Jon said instantly, his gaze still to the skies.

A strange shiver ran up Davos’s back. “How do you know that, Your Grace?”

Jon shrugged off-handedly. “I just know. It’s here.” Without a moment’s pause, he walked inside the cave. Davos quickly followed.

They stood inside the cathedral-like inner chamber and peered around at the glistening walls, wondering where to begin. Davos had always found a certain beauty to the striated rock that patterned the face of the cliffs, the stratum itself creating a particular energy that hummed in the air from its jagged lines. He grabbed a torch from the basket and waited as Jerrod sparked a fire to its tip with a few rocks. Once they all had a lit torch, Jon pointed to the back of the cave, where they could now see a pathway leading towards two tunnels on either side of them. The bottom of the iron basket had been filled with more rocks and debris from the shore: twigs and brush that caught fire quickly when lighted.

“Let’s start with the one on the left side,” he directed, walking ahead of them.

Kevven ran up in front of him to stop him in his tracks. “Your Grace, wait a moment. Let us go in first,” he proposed. “Torren and I will go in, then Tomas, and then we’ll send the signal for you and Ser Davos to follow when we’ve determined it’s safe. Gabe and Jerrod will remain to the back as rear guard.”

Davos jumped in, thankful for the lad’s good sense. “Aye, I agree. We don’t know how dangerous the ground is in there, Your Grace. Let the men do their job.”

Jon considered their requests for a moment before nodding his head, allowing Torren and Kevven to take the lead. The men started forward and Davos came up next to Jon to keep him in place and give him a closer look. It had been refreshing to see the king so cheery when he’d arrived in Jon’s chambers in the early hour, but Davos was still concerned with his mental state, and whatever was buried under that smiling exterior. It would take more than some comely handmaidens to beat back the melancholy Jon had exhibited on the long journey there. Davos flicked his eyes over Jon’s face under the glow of the torches, searching for any distress. There had been a few tense moments at dinner the night before, Davos feeling the need to redirect conversation whenever it was beginning to upset the king, but he looked much better today than he had in more than a moon, and Davos’s thoughts again strayed to the root of Jon’s troubles. It was obvious he was still worried about the Lady Sansa, possibly due to her being alone with Littlefinger, but he still sensed there was more to it.

At least the queen had turned out to be a little more open than he’d initially anticipated. She seemed very curious about Jon, and conversely, Davos had noticed a definite interest from Jon, although his own attentions had been consistently drawn to the woman who’d sat beside him over the course of the evening. Missandei of Naath was a beauty unlike any he’d seen in his travels.

The men had been gone a few minutes when they heard Tomas call for them.

“Well, let’s see if this excursion was worth it, Jon,” he said with some optimism, seeing the determination in Jon in the tight clamp of his jaw. Jon nodded again and strode confidently into the tunnel.

After what had seemed like an hour, if not more, they finally entered another, larger chamber, the space giving Davos back some air, as many of the tunnels had been quite narrow and confining. Sweat poured down his back but he drew in a harsh breath at the sight as he lifted the torch higher, seeing the ceilings go as high as a hundred feet, as tall as the throne room of the fortress.

“Seven hells! Look at that, Your Grace!” Little Gabe pointed in awe, all of them seeing the shiny glints of glass stuck to the walls. They’d seen bits and pieces of it as they’d made their way through the tunnels, but this was the mother lode, without question. The obsidian traveled all the way up the full height of the cave, as if they were under a part of the starry night sky captured inside.

And then Davos saw a wondrous thing – Jon’s face lit up, his mouth opening wide in utter delight, and it was as if a whole year had suddenly rolled back and Davos was seeing him elected as Lord Commander again. The weight that had settled into those shoulders from the moment Jon had reawakened from death seemed to shed from his body, the effect practically visible as the air ruffled Jon’s hair.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, his hushed reverence shared by them all. It was a grand feeling, Davos noted, a profound sense of hope that sprung inside of them all. There was enough dragonglass there to arm all of the north.

“It’s going to take more than the likes of us to start chiseling that off, unless we plan to be here through the long night,” he said. “What did Queen Daenerys say exactly about the work itself, Your Grace?”

Jon took a long breath. “She said she would supply us with whatever we needed to mine it,” he said simply. His gaze traveled across their faces. “I want to do a bit more exploring through the rest of the tunnels, to see what else we come across. But I think with the mass we’ve found here, she’ll be able to provide more men to help us get started in the next day or two. I’ll see to it as soon as I’m able to have an audience with her.”

“What is she like, King Jon?” Little Gabe asked suddenly, and all of them shot their eyes to Jon to hear his answer.

“She’s … not what I expected,” was all that he would say. He looked around the chamber, smiling in contentment once again. “Well, gentlemen, looks like we have our work cut out for us. Which way next, Kevven?”

* * *

“An-and do-don’t trouble yourself over it, my lady,” Willem stumbled along. “We-we’ll find her,” he insisted.

But Sansa knew instantly it was Arya. The dropping of names such as Maester Luwin and Ser Rodrick was a clear enough clue, but their descriptions of the girl posing as her sister made it even more apparent.

“You don’t have to,” she told them both. “I know where she is.”

Sansa was in a daze as she left the Keep to make her way to the crypts. While this continued rebuilding of her family was welcomed, she was a little more leery this time out. Bran’s complicated return had given her pause, and Jon’s absence had only grown deeper in her as a festering wound. What would Arya bring to this mix of daily emotional crisis? What would her horror stories entail?

She thought of Jon’s letter to her again, as she had a thousand times since reading it. _Forgive me_ , he’d written in his last line, after an altogether perfunctory account of their travel to White Harbor and a listing of expected dates as they bound for Dragonstone. It had been such a bitter disappointment, although she wasn’t sure what she could have reasonably hoped for in such a missive. Jon wasn’t fool enough to pour out his heart on parchment for any and all spies to intercept and parse over. But it had hurt her, nonetheless, that he hadn’t offered more of himself on the page.

And Bran had only made her feel all the more guilty about wanting more from Jon. He didn’t have to say anything, merely look her way as they sat for the evening feast, and Sansa would feel her skin crawl at the thought that he could have been watching them at any time, her and Jon fucking in her room, the two of them plastered to each other’s sex in his chambers, the many times she’d begged him to get her off. Sansa felt brittle as she made her tours of the castle and its ground every day, Littlefinger often taking the brunt of her frustrations as he followed her everywhere. To have Arya included in this maelstrom of anxieties could be a curse or a balm, depending on her sister’s experiences. Which would it be? Sansa knew not to be hopeful for the latter.

When she saw her, she had to take a breath, stalled in her steps as she took in Arya standing before their father’s statue. Her profile was an almost shrunken version of Jon and Father – the hair tucked back, the cape and scabbard all in line. If it had been a stranger, Sansa would have thought her a boy.

“Do I have to call you Lady Stark?” were Arya’s first words to her, and Sansa thought it a curious opening.

“Yes,” she said in jest, waiting for Arya to acknowledge her smile before she rushed forward.

When she hugged her sister, she didn’t know any longer what she was prepared for, but at least her sister hugged her back, although it was nothing like Jon’s. When she’d been reunited with him, she’d felt she was home instantly and she hadn’t wanted to let him go. With Arya, she felt a strange familiarity, recalling that their hugs had never been overly affectionate, as though Arya had simply tolerated them. Why would she change now?

As she talked to Arya, she felt an immediate tension, her sister already passing judgment on her guards. She let it go and hoped again that Jon would return soon. She missed him. But she knew how close her brother and Arya were and imagined their reunion would be quite the spectacle when it happened.

“I hope he comes back soon. I remember how happy he was to see me, when he sees _you_ … his heart will probably stop,” she said cheekily, the joke lost on Arya.

They talked of Father and the poor likeness of his statue. Sansa had done her best to describe him to the stone mason. They talked of Joffrey, of all things, and her sister seemed disappointed that it hadn’t been her who had dealt him the secret poison. She sensed Arya had a lot more to tell, especially when talking of a list of names, but she left it off for the time being. There would be plenty of time for them to share. With a sudden rush, Arya hugged Sansa again, and this time it felt warm and loving, and Sansa began to think things might all turn out alright, before the image of her brother parked in his wheelchair next to the weirwood tree intruded. She was going to have to explain to her sister what had happened to all of their brothers, Jon included.

“Arya,” she said before pulling back. “Bran’s home, too.”

Arya seemed happy for a brief second before she took note of Sansa’s face.

“What is it? Where is he?”

“Before I take you to him,” Sansa continued, her heart pained. “I should … show you where Rickon is buried, first.”

Arya’s face fell. “We lost Rickon? How?”

But Sansa walked her down the long path away from the kings of Winterfell and to the chamber where their family's tombs were kept. When she stopped in front of Rickon’s resting place, she noticed the flowers that laid across the top needed changing. She lit one of the torches near the closest column and waited for Arya to join her.

“He was killed during the battle to take back our home,” she said quietly, not quite ready to tell the whole story.

“He wasn’t with Bran?” her sister asked, the grief in her face as she shook her head at the site.

“Bran had … had sent him away to stay with the Umbers.” She still felt a surge of anger at that chain of events. “While he went north. Beyond the Wall.”

Arya turned to her. “Why on earth would he do that?” she asked.

“Why did you leave King’s Landing?” she rejoined. Casting her gaze over Arya’s clothes, she noticed her sister carried the look of a seasoned traveler.

“I thought I would go to Jon, at first,” Arya explained. “Father was dead. But he’d sent a man to me who recruited for the Night’s Watch. He said he would take me to Winterfell. Things happened along the way. I never made it there.”

“I can understand that,” she offered, knowing her own travels had been as unpredictable. She looked over her brother’s tomb again. “Rickon was still just a boy. He didn’t even make it to his fourteenth name day.”

“Did you see it?” Arya suddenly asked. Sansa wrinkled her forehead in response.

“What?”

“Did you see him killed? Who did it? Was it one of Bolton’s men?”

“Does it matter?” she replied. Ramsay was dead. She didn’t want to think about what led to Rickon’s death. And what it had done to Jon.

“You said Bran was here. Is he alive?”

Sansa breathed in a sigh. How to describe her brother? “Yes, he’s alive. And well. It’s rather amazing how far he traveled and in the conditions he did considering he’s a cripple. But as for his status … I don’t think that he’s the same boy we once knew. Just ... be prepared.”

Arya narrowed her eyes. “What does that mean?” she asked, her tone sharp as a blade.

“Why don’t I just take you to him,” Sansa suggested, feeling defeated. There was no way to explain it, really. “And you can see for yourself.”

“And Jon?” Arya searched her face, taking hold of Sansa’s wrist. “How was he when he left? How did he take to becoming a king?” Something in her eyes seemed to doubt it was a joyful occasion.

“We’ll talk of Jon during supper,” Sansa promised with a small smile. “He’s another story entirely. Let’s see to Bran first.”

At least Sansa could look forward to some normal conversation for the evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note on Dany's dress - looking at her new war-like wardrobe, I wanted to show her off trying to be a bit softer in her appearance at dinner, trying to make some inroads with Jon Snow and getting him to bend the knew (waggles eyebrows). I used these two images as my inspiration, as I don't know that I fully described it to my liking.
> 
> https://www.thefandomentals.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/02/dany-season-4-600x901.jpg  
> https://www.thefandomentals.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/02/cersei-1.jpg
> 
> Since there are many questions around what I will be covering, I will say this much -  
> * The next few chapters are about establishing relationships. I really won't be focusing that much on the main plot points of S7 beyond that. Jon and Dany being attracted to each other, Sansa attempting to get to know her brother and sister, Arya being Arya, Bran being Bran, as well as Sansa working LF. Other stuff will happen "offscreen" and I will be jumping over a big chunk of time at some point. I'm more interested in conversations.  
> * There will be a fair amount of words contributed to Jon and Dany's conversations on the way to WF (along with a return to smut), and there will be some build-up to LF's trial. I really don't want to spend that much time with all the characters separated from each other.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialog from 7x04, courtesy of Benioff and Weiss.

**.xxii**

“I can’t remember the last time I was in here.”

Arya sat across from Sansa in the solar where she’d sat with Bran only a fortnight ago. There was a larger dining room for the family on the other side of the Great Hall, which she and Jon had never used. Sansa had avoided it due to the many unpleasant memories of dinners with the Boltons. But to reconnect with her sister, Sansa preferred the intimacy of the family space. Their brother had left them to it while he oversaw the throng in the Great Hall, and Sansa had to wonder at the supper talk for that occasion, as many of their vassals had already received a taste of Bran’s enigmatic replies.

“Jon and I usually eat with everyone else,” Sansa noted. “I haven’t been in here much, myself.” She tinkled the bell on the table and after a few minutes Mhaegen and Taria came in with the cart to serve them their dinner.

“I’m still trying to imagine Jon as a king,” Arya said, diving into her meat pie as soon as it was on the plate. “I almost didn’t believe it when I heard it.”

“Where _did_ you hear it?” Sansa asked, laying out her napkin to her lap. Taria poured her some ale to go with dinner and Sansa took a sip immediately, feeling a bit nervous. Arya held out her cup towards Taria with a nod for some ale as well, her mouth full of food. She washed it down with a long swig from her cup and made a satisfied gasp when she was done.

“I was at an inn off the Kingsroad. Heard it from the kitchen boy. He said Jon came down from Castle Black and won the battle against the Boltons.”

Sansa took a long breath inward to temper her annoyance. Of course Jon got all the glory. “Bran said he saw you at the crossroads. Were you really going to King’s Landing to kill Cersei?”

Arya studied her curiously. “I was.”

Sansa scraped at the food on her plate. “And it was because of Jon that you came here instead?”

“Of course,” Arya said, a look on her face suggesting the question was daft. “I didn’t even know you were here until I got to the gate and your stupid guards wouldn’t let me in.” She shoved another forkful of pie into her mouth.

“Jon and I actually took the castle together,” Sansa said with the barest smile. “It’s been so quiet without him here. And then for Bran to show up so soon after he left. We thought you were both dead.”

“And I thought you were married off to Tyrion Lannister,” Arya shot back, watching her closely. “But Bran told me you were also wed to the bastard of the man who murdered our brother. If you were already here, what made you go find Jon?”

“Fear for my sanity,” Sansa answered, a wave of nausea hitting her as she closed her eyes for a moment. She could only hope that Bran hadn’t shared any other details. She gave Arya a wry smile. “I escaped. With Theon. We were on our way there when Brienne of Tarth found us and saved us from Bolton’s men. She told me she’d found you at one point, leaving the Riverlands. That you were with the Hound.”

“Yes,” she said, her tone guarded. “You ran with Theon? Isn’t he a traitor? I thought he betrayed Robb and took Winterfell.”

“Well, that’s an even longer story. But back to Jon, I fled with Brienne to Castle Black and was reunited with him there.”

“Alright then. So tell me how Jon was able to leave the Watch? Father executed men for desertion.”

Sansa was surprised by the question. It seemed that the myths and legends surrounding Jon had not traveled as far as wherever Arya had been.

“Jon was …” She wasn’t sure how to begin. “He rose to Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, you know. One of his biggest decisions was to allow the wildlings to pass through the Wall and take refuge in our lands. It didn’t go over too well.”

Arya’s brows met in the center of her forehead as she poised a forkful of pie midway to her mouth. “Why would Jon let the wildlings through? They hate us.”

“Not anymore,” Sansa noted wistfully. “Jon banded us all together, wildlings and Northerners, to face the horde of the dead on their way to us.”

Arya swallowed her pie with a big gulp. “What?” she asked dully.

“Oh, yes, the Night King is real and he has an army of the dead heading our way to bring about the long night,” Sansa answered, her manner droll and breezy. “Jon went to Dragonstone to parley with a queen to see if we can borrow her dragons. Apparently fire is one of the few things that will kill them.”

Arya stared at her hard. “Is this a jape? You sound like Old Nan.”

Sansa sighed. “I wish it was.” She glanced up to see Arya with her mouth agape. “You’ve been away from the North for too long.”

“ _How_ do you know this is real?” she asked.

“Jon has fought them,” Sansa confirmed. “And he saw the Night King for himself. It drives him, every hour of the day, doing whatever he can to have us prepared. That’s why he left me in charge so he could travel south. He says we need allies.”

“And you believe all this?” Arya’s expression was doubtful.

“I do.” She opened her mouth to say more, but then hesitated. There were things about Jon that Sansa wished to keep for her own, yet she understood that the stories would reach Arya sooner or later now that she was home. “I know for a fact people can be raised from the dead.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Arya returned, her eyes dark. “I’ve been around a lot of dead people. They usually stay dead.”

It was Sansa’s turn to scoff. “And where did you see all of these dead people?”

“On my travels,” she answered smoothly as she went back to her food.

“Oh, your travels. Well, our brother happened to be one of the dead. As I said, the men of the Night’s Watch did not appreciate their Commander letting the wildlings through, so … a group of them mutinied against him and murdered him.” Arya dropped her fork at that, snapping her eyes up in shock. Sansa reached for her ale and took a solid gulp of her drink as her sister sat agog.

“That’s not funny.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Sansa agreed. “When I arrived at Castle Black, a Red witch of R’hollor had just raised him the day before.”

Suddenly Arya’s entire demeanor changed. She sat up straighter and her eyes flashed dangerously. “Red witch? With red hair? And a ruby at her throat?”

“Yes,” she answered with a tightening knot in her belly. “Why? Did you know her? The Lady Melisandre?” She knew that woman shouldn’t have been trusted from day one.

Arya’s eyes were heavy-lidded. “I came across her, yes. What did she do to Jon?”

“I already told you.”

“But you didn’t see it happen?”

“What, you think he lied to me? And all the men who’d picked up his dead body?” Sansa attempted to push away the memory of what she _had_ seen happen between Jon and Melisandre.

“I didn’t say that,” Arya countered. She dropped her gaze to the table, a faraway look there. “I saw it happen once. A man died in front of me. And then his red priest said some words over his body and …” She looked back to Sansa. “The man said he’d been raised six times. That every time he became a bit less, that pieces of him, of his memories, were chipped away.”

Sansa felt a chill creep up her back. “Well, once was enough for Jon. We don’t need him going through that again.” She grew quiet with disturbing thoughts of her brother’s troubles. “It … changed him. He’s even more brooding, if you can believe it. Just very determined. And so damn intent on rushing in where he might get hurt.”

“And you’re sure he was really dead?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, put off by Arya’s odd behavior. “Yes. I saw the stab wounds. More than half a dozen across his stomach.”

Her sister raised an eyebrow at that. “A person can take a lot of knife wounds in the gut and still manage to survive,” she said confidently.

“And what of the heart?” Sansa lobbed back, irritated. “Can a person survive that?”

Arya seemed suspicious. “Jon took a knife in the heart?”

“Yes. As I said, I saw them for myself.” A vision of Jon’s naked torso sprang in her mind, her mouth sliding down his skin, over his scars. The awe she’d felt when she’d first touched them. She reached for her ale again to hide her face from Arya as she pushed the images away.

“So let me just confirm then …” Arya began as she held up a knife in the air as a pointer, “since the time that we were all separated, you’ve been married twice, our big brother has been raised from the dead, and our little brother has become some tree god and can see all of the past?”

“Sounds a bit mad, doesn’t it?” Sansa replied with a dry laugh.

“I’ve seen some pretty mad things,” Arya said. “Don’t know what to make of this, though.” She eyed Sansa warily. “And has Bran been acting that way since he returned home?”

“Yes.” Sansa sighed at the prospect of her little brother’s strangeness. “When he’s not sitting at that bloody weirwood tree in the godswood, he’s holed up in his room. I was surprised he offered to sit in the Great Hall this evening. I guess he felt strongly that we should spend some time alone.” She glanced up at her sister. “You know, he arrived with one of Howland Reed’s children. She was a sweet girl. I gathered that she’d been his companion for a while. It was obvious she was distressed about Bran, too. I don’t know what really happened to him, but she said there was a definite change after Hodor died. Bran has seen this Night King, too.”

“Hodor died?” Arya sat back in her chair in contemplation, her grip around her cup of ale as she shook her head. “I look around at the faces I see here and I don’t recognize anyone. I keep waiting for Septa Mordane to come around the corner and scold me for missing my lessons.”

“Septa Mordane is dead,” Sansa said sharply, feeling suddenly angry. “I saw her head mounted with Father’s.”

Arya said nothing, just stared at her coldly before taking another sip of her ale.

“Did you sleep alright in your old room during your nap?” she asked, curious if Arya felt the same ghosts around that she did. “I didn’t have a lot of time to think about where to put you, but if you prefer to be moved elsewhere, I’ll have the girls tend to it.”

“Why do I need to change my room? It serves its purpose.”

“Well, whatever you need to feel comfortable,” Sansa offered, “don’t hesitate to let me know.” She thought of the Northern lords and ladies and their concerns over Bran abdicating his role as heir in the face of Jon’s continued absence. “I’ll be meeting with our vassals tomorrow afternoon if you care to join us.” She wrinkled her nose, taking a good look at her sister and the style of her clothes again. “I still don’t know what you’ve been up to all this time. Where did you go after your detour on the way to Castle Black?”

“Lots of places,” was all Arya would say, her attention back on her dinner. There were a few minutes of silence between them as they ate, before she spoke up again. “I did spend some time in the Free Cities. In Braavos.”

“Braavos? What were you doing there?” Sansa was finding Arya’s reticence as frustrating and puzzling as her brother’s.

Once again, Arya’s answer was all but meaningless. “I was looking for someone.” She flashed her eyes to Sansa with something dark laced there. “So when is Jon supposed to be coming back?”

“Whenever he’s ready, I guess,” she answered, feeling strangely dispirited. Her reunion with her siblings struck an aching chord in her, as she continually compared them to Jon and the complete comfort she felt around him. It was a shocking state of affairs when Jon turned out to be the better conversationalist of all her siblings. “Jon has his agenda. As I said, he’s very driven. And the Northern lords certainly have plenty to say about that.”

“It must be odd for you.” Arya was watching her again, eyes hawk-like as she awaited her response.

“What’s odd?”

Arya shrugged. “You and Jon were never close. And now you’re both here and he’s been named king in the North. Not what you expected, I imagine, as Father’s trueborn daughter.”

Sansa found Arya’s tone abrasive and bristled at the implication. “Perhaps when we were children we weren’t close, but we are now. You don’t know what the two of us have been through together. I worry about him, alright? He’s … as I said, he’s been altered by his experience. It doesn’t matter what I expected.” She felt a rush of concern, wondering what Jon’s situation was on Dragonstone. Sansa had yet to send a raven to let him know of Arya and Bran’s return, a part of her still wanting to punish him. But as annoyed as she’d been with his letter it had been from weeks ago. She was desperate for news. “Look, when he does come back, you have to help me with him, to watch out for him. Jon needs … sometimes he just needs to be with the family.”

“Oh, so you know better, then?” Arya’s angry retort rang through the room, her eyes like slits. “ _You’re_ going to protect him, are you? A former Lord Commander and now a king?”

“I know him better than you,” Sansa snapped back. “Jon does what he thinks is right, just like Father, but he doesn’t always take every precaution, nor think everything through. He thinks too good of people. It’s what got him killed.”

“I think I know our brother pretty well,” Arya said, returning to her cool demeanor. “Jon isn’t stupid. If he’s got a good reason to go south, then I trust him.”

Sansa was getting increasingly incensed by the discussion. “Of course you do. I trust him, too. But I also know he’s vulnerable. I want him safe more than I want him right. You haven’t been here. You don’t know what –”

Just then, a large body of white flashed into her periphery and Sansa turned to see Ghost join them, his red eyes locked to hers as he loped towards the hearth situated behind Arya.

Her sister’s attention jumped to him instantly, her eyes widening. “Bloody hell, is that Ghost? He’s massive.” Her eyes followed the direwolf and her body turned in her seat as she watched him settle in front of the fire. Then she turned back to Sansa, her features carved with worry. “He left Ghost here?”

“Obviously,” Sansa noted dryly.

“I saw Nymeria,” Arya said in a rush. “On the way here. I thought I’d lost her for good. She was as big as Ghost, and with her own pack.”

“I thought Nymeria died. Isn’t that what you said?” A sudden surge of resentment rose in her chest, Sansa remembering how it had felt to lose Lady because of what Nymeria had done. It was as if the years traveled back in an instant as she remembered Arya screaming at her in front of King Robert and Cersei, in front of Joffrey. _Liar!_ she’d yelled after Sansa had given her account, Joffrey staring daggers at her the whole time, and Arya pulling at Sansa’s hair, humiliating her, Father having to drag her off. _She’s as wild as that animal of hers_ , Cersei had declared. _The wolf is of the North._ _She deserves better than a butcher._ Father going off to do it himself while Sansa had cried herself to sleep. It had been the first of an ongoing march of losses. “Lady was killed in her place.”

“I never said she was dead.” Arya curled an eyebrow. “I never said anything about her at all. She ran away. But Mycah was killed, too. He was my friend and he was murdered because of that twat. And because of Cersei.”

“Right, well, I really don’t want to talk about Cersei, if that’s alright. Perhaps we can discuss your role here at Winterfell. Where you might aid in our efforts to get the North ready?”

“I’ll think about it,” Arya replied coolly, then finished the last of her ale. “But right now, I’m bloody knackered. I think I’ll go for a short stroll before I head to bed.” She stood up. “Thank you for dinner.”

Sansa was stymied by the reaction. She stood up, too. “Oh. All right. Is there anything else I can have the servants get for you?”

“No, I’m fine. I don’t need servants to care for me,” she said, Arya’s smile wooden as she dismissed her. “So until tomorrow then. Good night.”

“Good night.” Sansa felt at a loss, watching her sister leave. She didn’t understand Arya’s prickly mood, but found it disappointing. She was only trying to help her siblings, after all. Taria came into the room behind Arya’s exit.

“Is there anything else you’d like me to bring you, Lady Sansa? Stefon made lemon cakes today, he said this time he’s got it right. Shall I bring you dessert?”

“No, it’s fine, Taria,” she told her. “You can go ahead and clear the plates away. It appears my sister is done for the evening.”

Once again, her thoughts turned to Jon. Her heart felt bruised as she imagined what he was doing right at that moment, how his mind was holding up through it all. If it was doing any better than hers. But most of all, she wondered when he would return to her.

* * *

Jon climbed over another rock, the heat stifling in such close quarters, but exhilarating all the same. He felt another roll of sweat trickling down the furrow of his back as he made his way into another chamber, holding his torch higher so he could scan the walls.

There had been no other major discoveries since he’d found the cave with the drawings. He wanted to make sure, however, that he hadn’t missed anything. The men were finishing up in the main cavern for the day, but Jon had wanted to give the passages another go, attempting to sort through his thoughts as he made his way down each corridor in the rock.

The afternoon had been an intense one.

Being able to escort Daenerys through the tunnels, to stand with her in the holy place he’d found where the Children of the Forest had painted their markings, had left a profound impression on them both. Just being in such close proximity to her in that snug space before the altar that their ancestors had made, and hearing her impassioned words to him, Jon felt as if his head was still spinning from it all. He’d been so excited when he’d found it, to have the physical proof to show her something that backed up his claim. It’s always been real, he’d told her, and her awe in the face of it had been rewarding.

_I will fight for you. _

She still wanted him to bend the knee, of course, but the negotiations had felt less like a demand, her tone imploring. _They will if their king does,_ she’d answered, when he told her his people wouldn’t accept a southron ruler. _Isn’t their survival more important than your pride?_

Jon had been stunned by the question, a chill running through him as he’d listened to Daenerys echo his own words to Mance Rayder back to him. Is that what he had been doing? Holding on to pride? Mance went willingly to the stake, ready to be burned alive while refusing to consider what it might mean for his people. _We do not kneel._ The slogan had stayed with Jon. He understood wanting that freedom, but survival had little to do with it.

_What kind of a queen am I if I’m not willing to risk my life to fight them?_

And then there had been the tense argument on the beach he and Davos had had the misfortune to witness. He’d brought the queen and Missandei out of the caves to find Tyrion and Varys waiting for her. The discussion that followed had been awkward to say the least, Daenerys all but accusing her Hand of catering to his sister. Jon had wanted to give them their space, backing away with Davos as they attempted to stay out of it, but Daenerys had called on him instead, had asked for his advice. And she’d listened to it. The moment felt as if they’d turned a corner somehow and Jon’s very center was still thrumming from that acknowledgement, his skin tingling as a waft of cold air brushed over him.

Rocky outcrops closed in on either side, the space becoming narrower as he walked, and Jon held up his torch again to see if there was an opening up ahead. Not able to discern any wide berth in the light, he scanned eyes to the ceiling overhead. It was low and squat here and Jon suddenly began to feel claustrophobic, needing some fresh air. He’d been in the cave for most of the day. Jon turned and made his way backwards, a hand outstretched to feel the rock along the way.

When he made it into the main chamber, he saw some of his men still at work.

“Your Grace!” Kevven called. “Where did you go? We were looking for you.”

“I wanted to see the drawings again,” he told them, feeling foolish. He’d just needed some time alone. “Where’s Ser Davos?”

“He left to go back to the fortress with that woman who met us on the beach,” Torren said. He looked over the wall he’d been working on, where he was flaking the obsidian off the rock with a hammer and chisel, pulling off scales of it. “Kev and I were just setting things up for tomorrow, when we can really start to tear into this fucker,” he added with a grin.

“Alright, but don’t stay too long. We have a full day of work in the morning. Make sure you get your rest, both of you. And tell the others, no fucking about, alright?”

“Of course, Your Grace. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

Jon continued on out of the cavern and took the passages that would lead outside. When he made it to the front hall, a great gust blew through the cave’s mouth, the wind making rushing sounds from the blowholes in the skylight. He could see the light had faded in the early dusk, and when he came outside the sun was a halved, flaming melon as it sunk into the ocean, the sky a multitude of pinks and purples that took his breath away as the colors flirted with the lush greens of the sea across its surface. The tide had already begun rolling in when the queen had stormed off with her Hand, and several hours later the water reached the cave’s mouth where he stood. The boom from waves against the rocks was a constant thunder, and as the tide pulled back it beckoned him.

The breeze wafted over Jon again, the cooling effect making his teeth chatter, as the many layers of shirts under his leathers were soaked through, his body overheated. The cloth from his shirt was stuck to his skin and Jon stared out at the water longingly, suddenly wanting to experience it, to know what it was like to swim in such power. He’d never done such a thing before. Back home in the North, there had been pools for them to play in, but swimming in the Shivering Sea or Bay of Seals could get you killed, with temperatures ready to steal a man’s breath and stop his heart. Not that he’d ever had the opportunity.

Another wave smashed onto an outcrop on the beach and Jon took off his gloves, making his decision. He stepped back inside the cave and threw his gloves to the ground, his hands quick to find his buckles and unlatch them. The gorget came off easily enough and he set it to a flat rock where it would be protected. He unbuckled his belt and then his leathers came off a few minutes later. By the time Jon had doffed his tunic, the cool air had his flesh rippled with goosebumps, chilling his sweat stained back. His boots came next, and he tucked them into the bevy of rocks that held the rest of his gear.

When Jon stepped outside again, the water rushed over his feet and he smiled, the cool tickle goading him on. The sun had set lower and he was anxious to get into the sea before the light had left the sky. He walked down to the shore’s edge, the water licking at his ankles and getting bolder as he drew closer. Another crash of waves landed to his right and Jon felt the thrill of it rush through him, the ocean’s restlessness a match to his own. He waded into the sea itself, the water up to his knees and his woolen breeches quick to soak through. The last gasp of flames from the sinking sun spread across the top of the bay and Jon marveled at its beauty. Without another thought, he dove in, arms over his head, and his body broke through, until he was under it, all sound extinguished for a wonderful moment, and then his head bobbed above the surface and the boom of the waves were back, seagulls squawking overhead to add to the chaos. He cut through the water with his hands in front of him and dove under again, loving the silence underneath. Jon opened his eyes for a moment, holding his breath, as he hovered in another world, one tinged green but scored by orange fire. His head broke through again and Jon gasped in cold air, twisting his head to look around him. He’d swum out farther than he’d meant to, but he waved his arms back and forth, holding himself up as he stayed suspended with his feet just off the ground. It was like floating in air, he decided, a weightless anonymity, and a sudden peacefulness took hold of him as something child-like rose inside him. Jon turned to look back at the shore. It seemed farther away, his paddling feet no longer near the bottom floor. He wondered just how far he could swim until he grew tired, not having done it before. Then Jon looked behind him to cast eyes to the horizon, saw the sun had dipped so low that it was more like a strip of molten liquid across the water. He let himself drop, now fully submerged in the sea and he pushed his body down to sink to the floor. His feet touched hard earth and then he was floating slowly upwards, and Jon looked up, saw frothy ripples over his head. The quiet was punctuated by intermittent compressions of the sounds above, a lapping noise that echoed and popped, and when Jon broke the surface once more, he was even farther out from land this time. He watched as the small figures of Kevven and Torren left the cave and made their way back to the steps.

Realizing he needed to get back, Jon used his arms to cut through the water in front of him again, imagining himself as a shark. He kicked out his legs and pushed himself forward, doing it a second time, and then lunged into the waves with an arm stroke over his head. His body sliced through easily and the force of it felt good, felt powerful. Jon disappeared under the water again and used his hands and feet to swim forward, enjoying the silence for as long as he could hold his breath. He continued to alternate between swimming on the surface and then going underwater and soon his feet were touching the ground floor again and Jon could drag himself up to a standing position. He felt invigorated as he came back up on the shore, his breaths harsh as he gasped from the exertion. But it was good and he grinned to himself, enjoying the momentary pleasure.

The sun had fully set by the time he was back on land, and the remaining light sapped out of the sky as the shadows settled in. Yet as he marched himself towards the cave, his intention on gathering his gear, his wet shirt hanging heavy to his thighs and the sea squashed inside of his breeches, he suddenly noticed a large fire on the beach. There was a group of Dothraki bloodriders starting to surround it, he observed, and then Jon heard the drum beats begin.

He stepped quickly to the cave’s entrance, pressing himself close to the rock, obscured in dark shadow as he watched them cavort in some kind of ritual. Chanting voices carried over on the breeze, rising in pitch as someone began to sing. The rhythmic beats escalated in earnest as the singer wailed, a woman’s voice calling to their gods, he assumed. And then he saw a procession of two dozen Dothraki or more coming from the steps to the gates, a small blonde figure at the head of it making her way to the bonfire and its choir. The chants grew louder as Jon watched, his mouth dry and eyes wide, the spectacle setting off his imagination. What was Daenerys about to do?

He didn’t have to wait long for an answer. As she arrived, the wails of the singers trailed higher to the sky, the Dothraki women raising their arms and moving to the drums. Their bodies writhed as they sang, some of the men raising their _arakhs_ with their cries, and then Daenerys was at the center of them, in front of the great fire, and a woman came up from behind her holding a small earthen pot. The ululations from the singers was something Jon had never heard before, the wails rising into a fevered pitch that was delivered right into his chest, a lament in them so deep he felt a kinship to their cries. It spoke to him, and he watched in fascination as the woman smeared something dark across Daenerys’s cheeks and forehead. He imagined it was blood, for its power alone would draw the gods.

Daenerys wore the same outfit from earlier in the day, when she’d stood on that same spot and asked Jon what she should do. She looked regal yet with a certain wildness in the same breath. And as the warbled singing continued, the drums a cacophony that beat so loud Jon could feel them between his legs, he saw Daenerys join in with the dancing maidens around the fire.

He sucked in a harsh breath, feeling his eyes stretch even wider. She moved in a manner he’d never seen, a freedom there that shocked him, as her body writhed and shuddered with the others, her hips gyrating with abandon. And then she seemed to grind her arse to the air, a shiver running through her with a great physical release, and Jon was transfixed, unable to look away at the beauty of it. There was no sense of wanton lust there, but one of complete liberation, as if her soul would slip free from her body and rise up, an ecstasy visible in her features from where he stood, and something in Jon wanted to touch it, wanted to join with her to feel that freedom, even if only for a second.

“You want to come?”

Jon jolted in alarm as the voice came up behind him, making him jerk his head around to see who’d invaded his voyeuristic indulgence. Ornela smirked at him as she came closer, her hand resting on his hip as she leaned into his back.

“I – I was, uh, sorry, I didn’t mean any offense, I was just curious about what she’s – what they were doing.” he stammered as he gazed at the path behind her, trying to figure out where she’d come from.

 _“Khaleesi_ and her _dothrakhqoyi_ go fight in morning,” Ornela explained. “They ask _Veshof_ to give them courage, to let them ride in night lands if they die.”

“Who is veshof?” he asked.

“He great stallion,” she told him, before grabbing for his hand. “You come,” she said, pulling him forward.

Jon dug in his heels and dragged her back to him. “No,” he said firmly. “I don’t want to intrude.” That would be rude, he didn’t belong there, and he didn’t want to have to explain himself to the queen.

 _“Dothras chek!”_ Ornela exclaimed, smiling broadly as she tried again to bring him with her. “You pray with us. You _khal_ and she is _khaleesi_. It is known.”

“That doesn’t look like praying,” he refuted, eyeing the orgy of dancing around the bonfire with a growing anxiousness, the persistent drum beats now inspiring a mild terror in his heart. The scene was nothing like prayer in the godswood, a solitary and somber reflection. Jon had no understanding of the Dothraki’s celebration before battle at all.

Ornela came up to him and slung her arms around his hips, clasping her hands to the small of his back. Jon was achingly aware that his clothes were still soaked through, his body chilled, and that in this state the slightest contact from her had him immediately hard. He put his hands to her arms to push her back delicately, but she clung fast to him.

“You come dance,” she said breathily. _“Yer zheanae_ _sekke_ _,”_ she crooned, running both hands over his bottom as she stared at his mouth. “You have nice _choyo_. Is good. You like, I show you.”

“Ornela, stop,” he warned as she pushed him up against the rock just inside the cave in an attempt to kiss him. “I’m not – we can’t, I told you. I don’t … we don’t dance like that where I’m from.” He wasn’t about to go down there and make a fool of himself.

Ornela arched an eyebrow at him in disbelief. “Then how you ride free?” She shook her head sadly at him. “You need woman, _Khal_ Jon.” She reached up on her toes and put her mouth to his, grinding her crotch to his own, and Jon felt that need rise up, the desire in him a savage cry that both repulsed him and left him bereft. Her hands were wrapped around the back of his neck and Jon lifted her by her seat, her legs quick to latch onto his thighs, her tongue now tangled with his and Jon’s head on fire. He wanted this girl, yet he knew he had no right to her, had no right to any of this, while his mind still visualized the queen writhing to the steady thumping in his ears. His situation was a far cry from his days with Ygritte, when he’d done whatever he needed to be accepted by the wildlings. Jon was a king now, and he needed to act like one.

He pushed her back forcefully onto the ground, hands gripping her hips as he gasped for breath, the drumbeats still swirling around them in the night air. “Ornela, you need to stop this. It’s not right. You should go, be with your people.”

But then Ornela was kneeling before him, her mouth pressed low on his belly, over his shirt. She’d moved her hands to grip tight to his arse as her head moved lower, down the placket of his breeches, and Jon was desperate to stop himself from doing this again, from making another huge mistake.

“Ornela, wait,” he cried in a harsh whisper. When she glanced up, Jon saw only a willingness to pleasure him there in her face, and once again, Sansa appeared before him for a moment, the eagerness he remembered an invite to temptation. Wanting to give his sister some relief had started all this madness. “Let me take care of you,” he said automatically, before he could think on it too hard.

Ornela narrowed her eyes at him, confused. “You no care,” she insisted. “You _khal.”_

“No, it’s all right. I can … we can do something you’ll like. And then you’ll show me what path you came down from, so you can take me back to the fortress away from the praying.”

She shook her head, her brow deeply furrowed. “I no understand.”

Jon pulled her up to a standing position and then twisted them around, so that her back was against the cave wall. “Just stay like this,” he said to her, his voice deep. He knelt before her and saw Ornela’s eyes widen in the pale shaft of the moonlight. Jon carefully put his hands to either side of her waist and brushed his hands down her legs, his eyes locked with hers the entire time.

“You want me to kiss you here?” he asked, putting a hand over the skirt’s rough fabric where it folded inward to her sex.

 _“Kees?”_ she asked hesitantly, as if clueless to its meaning.

Jon patted his fingers to his lips, then moved up on his knees and pressed his face to her skirt, kissing at the space where her heat dwelled. Ornela reached down with a gasp to clutch the hem of her skirt and drag it up, and then Jon was helping her, using both hands to slide it upward until she was revealed to him, the dark thatch of hair nestled atop the split of her thighs. He bent forward instantly and kissed her mons, and her desire was a thick scent in his nose. Ornela cried out at first, but then she had a hand on his head as she took a single step to the side, her legs opening for him. Jon bent again, his tongue ready as he swiped it across her. The reaction was immediate.

“Sek!” she called as she held him there, and then Jon was prying her thighs further apart, pulling one leg to rest over his shoulder as he nudged his nose to her cunt and kissed her deeper. Ornela was receptive, moving with him, until eventually Jon had both of her legs over him and then he was raising her body along the rock, his tongue working her intently as her cries grew louder.

“Sek! Zhilat!” She screamed for him as he continued to plunder her, his lips upon her petals, the taste of her inundating as his tongue delved deeper, and as Jon curved his arms around her legs, his hands resting on her belly, she quickly gripped his wrist, pulling his hand to her breast. “Theya,” she begged, and Jon didn’t understand the words, but he understood her need, and his fingers latched to her vest and pulled it aside so he could fondle her breast, brushing a taut nipple as the girl moaned and screamed again. He wasn’t concerned that she could be heard, the drumbeats still drowned out his thoughts, the moaning songs from the women on the beach carrying across the waves.

Ornela groaned something guttural in her language and arched her back, giving Jon opportunity to slip his tongue deeper inside her. He slid his mouth up and searched for her nub, sucking on it slavishly as soon as he could draw it out.

“Khal Jon!”

Jon let her ride his face, her thrusts spasmodic as he absorbed her pleasure, a pinch of a nipple making her scream again and then she was flooding his mouth, his throat working as he drank her desire down, the only offering he knew how to give instinctively. His cock was as hard and unyielding as the ancient rock around them, but he ignored it, concentrating on Ornela’s fitful orgasm as he finished her off.

When he finally pulled away from her, the girl looked down at him with complete worship in her eyes.

 _“Yer chomoe anna,”_ she said to him in heavy, panting breaths, her face flushed with a beautiful light under the moon’s softening glow.

“What does that mean?” Jon asked thickly, wiping his mouth and licking at pinched fingers, holding on to one of her thighs as his eyes stayed on hers.

“You do me great honour,” she said haltingly. She reached down to hold his face between her hands. “You not like my _khal.”_ She smiled wistfully to him and then knelt down to his level, reaching over to kiss him deeply. He held her for a moment, returning the kiss before breaking them apart.

“Is that a good thing?” he asked, wondering what had happened to her king once Daenerys showed up.

“Is good.” She smiled again and then Jon was helping her straighten her skirt as they both stood.

“So … no more, alright?” He gave her a curt nod and then moved to where his pile of armor lay. “I could use your help, however,” he told her as he reached for his boots.

Ten minutes later, Ornela finished the last of the buckles on his gorget and then he was following her, his hand locked with hers as they left the cave to find her path and circle around to the other side of the fortress.

Jon took a last look behind him. The fire still raged but the chanting had stopped, and he saw Daenerys at the head of her guard on the procession back to the grand steps. He’d never seen anyone look more like a queen in his life.

* * *

“Did you see that? You were right there. You see what she’s capable of?”

Petyr once again observed Sansa pace the room, her distress like a rabble of moths fluttering around a fire. She’d marched off in a panic the minute they’d watched her sister best her sworn shield.

“It would seem your sister has learned many skills since she’s been away. Did she offer any explanation at all of her whereabouts?” he asked, standing by the window as Sansa went to the desk to unfurl a letter.

“She barely said anything, full of vague half-answers.” Then Sansa turned to him. “But she did mention Braavos. What do you think she would be doing there?”

“I couldn’t even begin to venture a guess, my lady. There could be any number of reasons she was there, aside from staying in hiding from the Lannisters. Who was protecting her might be the better question.”

“Brienne already told me that Arya had been traveling with the Hound when she found her. But she swore that she killed him and that Arya had disappeared while they fought. Somehow my sister made it to Braavos on her own. She’s got some sort of list, she says, and she intends to kill the people on it. What am I supposed to think from that kind of declaration?”

“That she’s a bitter girl,” Petyr suggested with some sarcasm. Sansa rolled her eyes and walked away from him, her pacing renewed. “I have friends in the Iron Bank, if you need me to find out information, I can inquire immediately, Sansa.”

“Or I could just ask my brother.”

Cold fingers brushed the back of Petyr’s neck. He still feared what Brandon could bring to the fore. Hearing his own words spouted back to him at that last conversation was a chilling reminder that in this current climate, Petyr couldn’t prepare for every possible outcome, that magic was beyond his realm of expertise.

“Is that wise?” he questioned. “What do we really understand of Brandon’s gifts? Have his statements been proven to be accurate?”

Sansa stared at him dully. “You think Bran is lying? That he made this all up?”

Petyr tilted his head as he pretended to think over his words carefully. “I think that your brother experienced some extreme conditions beyond the Wall. That in his state of grief and isolation, his body so broken, is it not possible that his mind followed? Men with grandiose claims about their abilities don’t have to be liars, just susceptible to delusion.”

“He knew where Arya was. He knew about her list, about her plans. There’s your proof of his accuracy right there,” she said in a testy rebuttal.

“Very well, my lady, you have your answer then. And what does Brandon say to your sister about you, I wonder?”

That stopped her pacing, as she turned to him with some alarm. Petyr could see in her eyes that it had crossed her mind more than once, and more tellingly, that there was something there she was very concerned her brother might discover. Sansa’s expression quickly folded into hardened features, her mouth a grim line.

“He told her that I’d been married off to Ramsay. I don’t think it was any kind of revealing conversation, however. Bran tends to spit out bits of information in non sequiturs as if the rest of us should know it already.”

But Petyr saw a pattern repeating, of Sansa at war with a sibling all over again. This could be of use to him. He’d already seen the king in the North removed from the picture and had been quick to take advantage of his good fortune. The bastard would find a decidedly different reception upon his return, as Petyr worked to turn the Northern lords towards Sansa’s steady hand as ruler.

Just then a knock came at the door. Sansa called for them to enter and the large burly frame of Maester Wolkan strode in. He nodded to them both.

“My lady, I have just received some important information from Lord Stark. He’s … he’s seen something and he’s asked me to send ravens to the Citadel and all the lords of Westeros not present. And to the king.”

Sansa waved an impatient hand to him. “And? What is it? What did he see?”

Wolkan looked nervous, a not so unusual state for the man. “He says the Night King is drawing closer to the Wall. Your brother has spotted him and the dead near Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.”

In spite of his doubts of the dead having risen, Petyr felt another chill race up his spine. Time was of the essence. He had to move quickly. With the man in his presence, Petyr recalled Wolkan mentioning that Maester Luwin kept meticulous records – that he’d kept every scroll that Winterfell had ever received – and Petyr’s mind began ticking, thinking back to a particular message Robb Stark might have been handed.

Sansa looked shocked for a moment before instantly recovering. She straightened her back and nodded to the man.

“Very well then. Go ahead and write to them, Maester Wolkan. I will send message to the king myself. Jon should hear it from me.”

“Of course, Lady Stark. I’ll see to it immediately.”

He left them and Petyr’s gaze was on her again, detecting the smallest gestures of her discomfort in her repose as she sat at her desk with widened eyes, rubbing her knuckles over her gloves. He saw her swallow hard as she scanned the letters on her desk.

“I should write to Jon then,” she said aloud, sounding as if it were more to bolster her courage than as a means to inform him.

“What will you tell him?”

He saw a ripple of pain flash over her face before it settled again. “I will tell him that our brother and sister have returned. That Bran is able to see things. I don’t know. I’ll think of something.” She shrugged her shoulders in a manner of defeat. “Will it even matter?”

And Petyr suddenly saw her grief plainly, felt it hit him hard in his gut. How could he have not seen it before?

“You miss him,” he said, speaking to the heart of it. Sansa darted her eyes to him in surprise and Petyr saw it hang there, saw her fear for the briefest second.

“Of course I miss him. He’s my _brother,”_ she stated, her words defiant.

In a startling instant, Petyr saw himself in the courtyard of King’s Landing, talking to Cersei, her guards surrounding him. _When boys and girls live in the same home, awkward situations can arise. Sometimes, I’ve heard, even brothers and sisters develop certain affections.  
_

Petyr’s body went cold as he stood watching her. Had he missed the obvious? Would his Sansa lay with her own bastard brother? He blinked back at her as a sudden blankness stole over her features. She stood up and came around her desk to walk towards him, something almost menacing in her gait. Petyr took a step back from her instinctively as she gained closer.

“Lord Baelish, I appreciate all that you’ve done for me over the years,” she said, her tone dripping with sincerity. She came to stand before him and put her gloved hands to either side of his face, holding him there in a gesture he’d used with her many times. “Since I was a young girl in the capital you’ve looked out for me. If you would be so kind as to help me now, I would ask for your continued service. Whatever you can find out about my sister, I would be most grateful for your counsel.”

“Consider it done, Sansa,” he said with some measure of affection still. He had much to think about.

She leaned down and put her lips to his, holding his mouth placidly, with no passion in it, and then pulled back after only a moment.

“Thank you, Lord Baelish. I know I can count on you.” She stepped away and busied herself with the parchment on her desk, moving to sit behind it again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a letter to write.”

“Of course, my lady. I shall leave you to it.”

Petyr turned his heel and made for the door, his mind whirring with possibilities.

* * *

_You’re late._

_I’m sorry, Princess._

_I thought you weren’t coming._

_The Hand of the king doesn’t have much leisure time._

_You won’t be a very good Hand if you see the word ‘knight’ and say the word ‘ker-nig-it’._

_You’re your father’s daughter. Bloody relentless, the both of you._

_You’ll never read well if you move your lips. That’s how children do it._

_You were a pirate once._

_Oh, I was never a pirate, I was a smuggler._

_What’s the difference?_

_If you’re a famous smuggler, you’re not doing it right._

“Shireen.”

Davos awoke to the sounds of the ocean outside of his windows, a pain in his heart as the memory of her faded with his dreams. He had avoided her room as he’d traversed the fortress, the wound still too great. It had been easy enough, as her little cell in its high tower had been far enough away. He sat up with a stretch, sore spots in his body that cried out while he cleared his mind of the ghosts of his loved ones. His thought drifted to the king he now served.

Jon had been acting strangely the night before, which Davos should have come to expect by then. They had shared another evening meal together as the queen and her Hand had been busy preparing for her attack on the mainland, her target the Lannister forces on their way back to King’s Landing after sacking Highgarden. Jon had been anxious, restless, drinking too much wine again as they discussed Tyrion’s strategy and how the queen seemed to chafe against it. There were many unanswered questions in terms of her forces and how she was spreading them out. Both Jon and Davos felt there was opportunity for her in the Riverlands, with the Unsullied stranded at Casterly Rock after an empty victory.

“Hell, they could take Riverrun, and then make their way to The Twins. They’d beat the Freys easy enough and barely lift a finger to do it. She’d have a huge advantage. I mean, realistically, how many other kingdoms does Cersei actually hold with any kind of grip? One, two, at best?” Jon had finished, as they turned his small table into a makeshift map, complete with utensils and salt shakers as markers.

“Aye, and with their remaining ships, they can travel in half the time coming eastward.”

Jon had pointed to a piece of bread on the table that stood in for Casterly Rock. “Why was Tyrion so dead set on taking his ancestral seat? Some kind of symbol? Revenge? Otherwise, I don’t see its appeal. And it looks like Tyrion’s brother pulled a Whispering Wood on him, the same way Robb fooled Ser Jaime in the War of the Five Kings.”

Davos had nodded enthusiastically, recalling the conversations with Stannis and his bannermen after it happened. “Sending two thousand men to meet Tywin’s army when they were expecting twenty thousand and then pulling that feint got your brother noticed,” Davos said, shaking his head ruefully. “He started off so strong.”

Jon had turned quiet after that, giving up little information as Davos had tried to drag out the origins of his odd mood. It had caught his attention, however, when Jon sat up straight in his seat, closing himself off, after one of his maids had come into the room to clear their plates. Considering how friendly Jon had been with them before, Davos had wondered if something had gone wrong. Yet the king was not forthcoming when Davos had attempted to question him further on the girls. While he had been amused to see the king had been given handmaidens at the start, he was beginning to worry there might have been a darker, ulterior motive.

Davos got out of his bed and rubbed at his back with the heels of his hands. He was not fortunate enough, nor important enough, to be offered pretty handmaidens to attend to his needs. His head felt thick and foggy, but he went to splash his face with cold water in the small adjacent chamber where the basin was kept. They would begin a full day of mining today. Jon had indicated that Daenerys had left some men to assist and it got Davos thinking about the true number of her armies. The Dothraki were a hundred thousand strong, it had been said, but there was no way she had brought them all with her. Daenerys’s small council had been careful not to divulge too much during dinner conversation, but it put Davos in mind for another trek around the island.

He got dressed and was preparing to head over to the other side of the fortress when a knock came at his door. The guard outside opened it and allowed one of the servant girls to bring him a morning meal. It was one of the women that took care of Jon and he was immediately attuned to her as she brought a tray to his table.

“Good morning,” he said to her with a gracious smile. She turned to him and nodded silently, ready to make her way out as soon as his meal was served. “Did you already see to the king?” he asked suddenly, trying to hold her there.

“Khal Jon still sleep,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.

That surprised Davos. He swiveled his head to take note of the sun already high in the sky as the day began. He let the woman go and went about eating his food, his mind still working its way through whatever was troubling his king.

When he made it to the cliffs on the southwesterly side of the island, the first sight he came upon were the lines of Dothraki riders and their horses waiting to board the ships moored in the harbor. There were streams of them on the beach, but from his eyes, perhaps one or two thousand at most. Where were the rest? How many ships had left already? As he pondered his questions, he heard footsteps coming up behind him on the grass. Davos looked over his shoulder to see Lord Varys approach, the man’s hands tucked into the cut of his tunic as if he were constantly cold.

“Ser Davos. You’re up early, I see. Come to take in the scenery?” he asked breezily as he walked up to stand next to him. They both took in the bustle down below, Varys’s interest so obviously on Davos.

“I think I’ve seen all that Dragonstone has to offer in my time here with Stannis,” he answered. “I’m more interested in its inhabitants this time. The queen’s blood riders will make a fearsome sight when they make the Rose Road, no doubt. Those soldiers don’t know what they’re in for.” He looked over to Varys. “And the queen? I suspect she’ll be riding into battle on at least one of her dragons, judging by her insistence yesterday. But how much sooner will she arrive before them? Is she planning on stopping elsewhere along the way?”

“The queen has already set sail early this morning. She will sail with them until they hit the mainland, where she’ll ride Drogon the rest of the way,” Varys shared. “But the Lannister and Tyrell armies won’t be on the Rose Road. They’re coming across Blackwater Rush on the Goldroad.”

“From Highgarden? Why would they take that route?” Davos wondered aloud, his mind spinning. “So then, where is she planning to land? I would imagine their best bet would be to hug the southern coast of the Blackwater, then land at the mouth of the Kingswood. That’ll give such a large host some cover. They can make their way past Tumbleton fairly undetected and can follow the Rush until they run right into Cersei’s forces.” He and Jon had worked it out the night before.

“You know your country well,” Varys remarked. “I can see why Stannis put such faith in you.”

Davos cast a glance around the cliffside. “Still, doesn’t look like all of her Dothraki are here, if we’re to believe the numbers we’ve heard,” he commented. “As was noted by all, I know Dragonstone. Nothing is produced here – unless you’re countin’ soldiers. But Driftmark –” He nodded towards the horizon where the next island sat about thirty miles away. “Now those are some fertile lands. Plenty of food and provisions for two large armies.” He looked over at Varys with a tilt of his head. “And House Velaryon, historically, has always been supporters of the Targaryens, until Robert’s Rebellion. They stood behind Stannis after Robert died. Currently, the head of that house is a ten year-old boy. I wonder if the queen has taken a trip over there at some point to meet with him.”

Varys smiled like a cat that had just swallowed its dinner. “That would be the smart thing to do,” he agreed, confirming nothing.

“Seemed like the Hand had a difficult time of it yesterday, trying to get his queen to do the smart thing.”

“The Mother of Dragons follows her heart,” Varys replied. “She does what she thinks is right for the people of Westeros, which is what makes her a good ruler. And she is brave.”

“So is the King in the North.”

Varys turned to appraise him. “Yes, so we’d heard. He’s done some impressive things. Someone was very keen for him and Daenerys to meet. You mentioned Stannis – a man who claimed he was the true king yet resorted to magic to ensure his seat on the Iron Throne.” He arched an eyebrow and cocked his head to Davos. “The priestess who followed him paid us a visit.”

The news startled Davos. “The Lady Melisandre was here?” he said with some shock.

“Oh yes. She stood on these cliffs and watched your king being met on the beach. She told me they hadn’t parted on the best of terms, that she would be a distraction. I have to wonder, was it the same distraction Jon Snow receives nightly by one of Daenerys’s handmaidens?”

Davos was further surprised. “I don’t know anything about that,” he said. “But the king in the North is an honourable man. Every inch the man his father was.”

“Yes, poor Ned. Who fathered a bastard yet refused to play the game. At least until it was too late.”

“We’re not here to talk about Ned Stark, though.” Davos put his hands behind his back and breathed in the sea air, hoping Lord Varys would get to his point.

“I’m here to talk about you,” Varys rejoined with a mischievous smile. “I want to know what makes the Hand to Stannis Baratheon decide to serve Jon Snow.”

“Well, that’s a complicated story,” he admitted. “But I know he’s the man to lead us through the long night we’re all about to face. I believe in him, just as you believe in your queen.”

Varys looked down to his feet a moment. “You know, I do believe our queen admires him. She doesn’t seek counsel from just anyone. He made a good point yesterday. And she listened to him.”

“Aye. He has a lot of those,” Davos acknowledged.

Varys smiled again in that indulgent way of his. “Then I imagine there will be more to their story. We’ll see what happens when she returns.”

“We will,” he agreed. He turned to the man and nodded to take his leave. “And now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to join my king as we have some mining to get started.”

* * *

As Davos was coming down the corridor to make his way to Jon’s room, he saw the king at the other end of the hall, on his way out. Davos walked a bit faster to reach him, and saw that Jon carried himself with a slight limp.

“Mornin’, Your Grace,” he called, running up to Jon’s side. “Someone had a late morning.”

Jon turned to acknowledge him. “Aye. We had a late night. You need to stop me after a few glasses, Davos.”

“Are you all right? What happened?” he asked, pointing to Jon’s left leg.

“Nothing,” Jon replied quickly. “It’s just a – I tripped over some rocks yesterday in the caves.”

“But you slept alright?” Davos asked with his thoughts on the accusations Varys had made.

Jon narrowed his eyes as they made their way into the main hall. “I told you, I drank too much, and I had a splitting headache later, but otherwise, I was fine.”

“Well, then, let’s take a leisurely stroll around before we get started,” Davos suggested. “And see just who’s been left with us.”

They had a long walk down the steps towards the beach, and Davos felt a sweet freedom for the time being, knowing they had a bit of a breather while the queen and her Hand were gone with their army. Varys could make all the implications he wanted, but Davos agreed that Daenerys had taken a liking to Jon. And Jon needed someone, he’d decided, to give him some joy in his life. As firm as Jon had been in his refusal to bend the knee, there had been an obvious attraction.

“What do you think of her?” he asked Jon suddenly, the profuse sunlight a blessing as he recalled the wintry bite of the North, and the water dazzling as it shone with twinkling lights across its surface.

“Who?”

Davos gave a throaty note of exasperation. “I believe you know of whom I speak?”

Jon kept his gaze towards the sea. “I think she has a good heart.”

“A good heart? I’ve noticed you staring at her good heart,” he teased.

But Jon remained dour, still worried about the Night King and the North's depleted army, even amidst all this glorious sunshine. Davos felt a little spark of happiness, however, when he saw that they’d been left with at least one lovely person on the island.

“Speaking of good hearts, _Missandei of Naath!”_ He was delighted they’d have her for company at dinner.

The three of them spoke for a while, Missandei giving them an interesting viewpoint on her people’s concept of marriage and bastards. But as they were speaking, Jon spotted a ship sailing into the bay.

“Is that a Greyjoy ship?”

Limp forgotten, Jon practically sprint the rest of the way down the battlements, making sure he was there to meet the party that sailed up onto the beach.

Davos and Missandei joined him, as did several other Dothraki guards. The Greyjoy men dragged their boat ashore and Davos saw the young man at the head of them take a surprised step back when he saw Jon waiting there. There was some hesitancy in his demeanor, and as Jon took slow steps towards him, the man finally stepped forward and spoke.

“Jon? Didn’t know you were here.”

It suddenly registered with Davos that he was an actual Greyjoy, and seeing Jon’s murderous face, he placed him to be the former ward of the late Ned Stark, Theon Greyjoy.

Jon stayed silent, just staring at him, but Theon tried again.

“Sansa … is she alright?”

And then Jon seemed to explode in his anger, grabbing Theon by a fistful of his garb to drag him up to his face, while Davos rushed forward. “What you did for her … is the only reason I’m not killing you.”

Sansa. Again.

And a disturbing thought formed in his mind, one that left a strange ache in the pit of his stomach. If he’d been a stranger, if he’d not known who Sansa was, it occurred to Davos that Jon’s actions might have been misconstrued. That someone on the outside of it might have assumed she was a lover or a wife. But of course, he knew the king was devoted to his sister, would protect her at any cost. Then he recalled the night Jon had gotten drunk on the boat.

_“What do you think your sister wants from you, Jon?”_

_“Everything._ _All of me.”_

A dark cloud passed over the sun and Davos shivered, no longer feeling the sun’s warmth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **7/6 post script** So, I knew this chapter had the potential to cause a bit of controversy. To those calling out Jon being OOC in this, I would remind everyone that in this fic, Jon has just gone through a hellish two months in which the guilt and self-loathing he's had for himself from this dark relationship with his sister has reached critical levels. He's been manipulated into doing things he wasn't comfortable with, and he's still freefalling here. How he reacts in this particular situation is directly out of what he just went through.
> 
> I will admit that this wasn't in my original outline, the handmaidens were completely organic, so I never made mention of Jon/OC in the tags because this was as much a surprise to me as anyone else. But I have a thread with this that I'm trying to string along until I get to Dany's pov next chapter. 
> 
> At the close of this chapter, Jon has been officially on Dragonstone for 5 days, so he's only spent 4 in the presence of Daenerys, and their interaction was minimal at best. Not a lot of time for deep romantic setup, so all I have to work with are physical attractions, and other characters are noticing it more than the actual participants. Trying to work out timelines with this show is a nightmare, so I am doing my best to stay within a realistic frame of events, while staying mindful to facts the show has given us. Once Dany comes back from the battle, there will be a lot more time for them to have conversations before they are splitting up again.
> 
> Thanks for your questions.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I noted in a comment, this fic feels like its basically reset itself to ground zero, as the hurtling momentum of Jon and Sansa's escalating relationship has pulled us along for most of it and that has gone. However, I am really enjoying pulling in other voices to this story, and I hope you are enjoying them, too. I ended up making this entire chapter from Dany's pov, I was having such a good time. But fear not, the angst and heightening dread will return by the boatload very soon! 
> 
> I want to thank a few dear people - to aflashofgreen for her wonderful, helpful notes on this chapter, and for some illuminating points she made on a character that really helped me gain a foothold into their pov. Also, to mimreads, who has done the MOST GORGEOUS artwork for this story, that I can hardly wait to share with all of you. It is just stunning, truly amazing. I was verklempt with emotion. (UPDATE: it's in Ch 1 and Ch 18, go look!)
> 
> I thank you again for all of your comments. They keep me going.

**.xxiii**

The wind rushed by her, leaving a steady howl in her ears.

It was always a thrill, being able to skim the skies on the back of Drogon, seeing the world from a perspective that was wholly unique, that no other person would ever see or could understand. Having the world laid out before her, the aerial view giving her a special insight into its topography, into the inhabitants below, everyone reduced to tiny figures no matter the land, only reinforced her feelings that this was her destiny, and that she alone was meant to lead all the kingdoms. That she alone could bring them together. She would never tire of it.

Flying over Blackwater Bay, she saw the islands looming up ahead – first Driftmark, then beyond it, the towers of Dragonstone waiting for her. The end of the battle on the Goldroad had left a bad taste in her mouth and she was eager to be back in her chambers to take a long bath, as well as let Drogon recover. Tyrion had upset her, arguing with her after she’d given her decree, on what to do with the Tarly commander and his son. They had made their choice freely, and he acted as if she was the one being difficult. It reminded her all too well of the time she’d made her deal with the slaver Kraznys; Sers Jorah and Barristan challenging her openly in front of her enemies as if she were a child that needed guidance and not a woman with her own mind. As much as she often relied on the information of the men she surrounded herself with, she sometimes bristled at the way they advised her, the idea that only they had a solution, that only men could truly understand these things and consistently felt the need to explain to her just how her instincts were wrong.

Drogon let out a cry underneath her as they soared over Driftmark, where they saw Rhaegal leap up from the cliffs on the other side of the island, a goat dangling from its mouth. Rhaegal took off and for a moment Drogon wanted to follow but Dany made her intent known and he stayed on course, his wound still causing him to keel to the right. A small bird was barreling towards her, one too small for Drogon to notice, and she dodged it seamlessly before it could dive into her shoulder, righting herself behind her child’s ridged back with a pained sigh as the idea of a hot soak to soothe her weary muscles called to her once more.

Daenerys had decided to fly all the way back in order to arrive at least a day or two before her Hand. Let him deal with the aftermath and perhaps take some much needed time to reconsider his stance. She had entrusted Tyrion to strategize her campaign and so far, she’d been the only one to deliver a proper victory. She needed some space with her own thoughts for a bit, without the constant muttering into her ear.

Of course, not all of the men in her circle were inclined to condescend to her. Her thoughts turned to the rebellious king from the North, Jon Snow. He had been honest with her on the beach, just as he’d been honest with her in the cave. There was a transparency with him that she found refreshing; she was so used to men and their games she had become inured to it. Yet Ned Stark’s son seemed to have no interest in them, unless this insistence on a Night King was some grand deceit, the likelihood of which she was starting to doubt with every conversation. As irritating as he’d been during that first introduction, she had come to appreciate that Jon Snow wasn’t easily persuaded, that he was a man of convictions who stood his ground for his people. _The lords of the North placed their trust in me to lead them, and I will continue to do so as well as I can._ It wasn’t aggrandizement, he truly believed it.

For a bastard, he carried himself well, although she hadn’t had much experience with highborn bastards. There was more to him than that, she knew, as she’d come to learn from her handmaidens. His curiosity, his interest in their ways, only made him more intriguing. While Tyrion dealt with the remaining Lannister soldiers and sailed his way back, she would have Jon Snow to herself.

Drogon soared over the water, the craggy cliffs of Dragonstone gaining closer, when Daenerys spotted a figure waiting near its edge, his cloak tufted up by the wind and snapping behind him. _“Valahd,”_ she goaded her child, Drogon flapping his wings until they were propelled forward with incredible speed. Soon they were gliding over the cliffs themselves, and down below she saw Jon Snow watching their return, a guileless wonder across his face as they flew overhead.

As soon as Drogon landed, he seemed to sense their guest, bounding forward with unrestrained excitement in his roars until he was almost upon the young king. Daenerys had a sudden spark of concern that Drogon would get carried away and she warned him in her mind to be careful. She expected Jon Snow to back off, to give them a wide berth while she dismounted, but that didn’t appear to happen. Instead, he came forward, until she lost sight of him under Drogon’s great head. That worry sat high in her belly again, as she wondered what would possess him to do such a thing. Even the most hardened of men knew to be wary of her children.

Then a chirp of contentment filled the air, followed by Drogon’s purrs, and Daenerys sat stunned as Drogon lowered his head and she watched Jon Snow stroke the side of her child’s face. An expression of pure joy was etched into his features while Drogon's low growls rumbled with approval, and Daenerys felt a creeping warmth climb from between her legs to the high point of her breasts. This Jon Snow was surely either mad or completely without fear, or perhaps a bit of both, to make such a gesture as if her dragons were merely house pets. No one, no _man_ , had ever come this close to them as far as she knew, although Tyrion had implied that it was he who had set Rhaegal and Viserion free. But to see it, Daenerys was suitably impressed, and as she stepped down from Drogon’s wing, Jon Snow turned to her with a welcoming smile. It transformed his somber face.

He really was quite pretty.

* * *

It was during dinner that Daenerys had a chance to observe the young king again. After their talk on the cliffs was cut short by Ser Jorah’s return, her mind had quickly turned to other matters, her attention on Ser Jorah’s comfort and needs as she had chambers prepared for him. They had only a brief moment to catch up, but he looked healthy and spoke like a man who’d been given a second chance at life, and that was all the assurance Daenerys had needed. He sat to one side of her at the table, while Jon Snow sat at her right, and she’d already noticed his cautious glances at Ser Jorah several times since they’d been seated.

“And how has the mining been going, Jon Snow?”

He snapped his eyes from Ser Jorah to her with some surprise, eyebrows darting high. “It goes well, Your Grace, thank you for asking. Your men have been invaluable to us in this undertaking, as we’ve already made a healthy severing in the vein of the main cavern in the time you’ve been gone. I expect at this rate we’ll be able to shore up enough obsidian for our armies in a fortnight.”

For some reason, the news didn’t sit well with her. A fortnight wasn’t much time at all, and her aim in getting to know him was to inspire a willingness to bend the knee, she told herself. She didn’t want to give him up just yet.

“Oh. Well, I hope they can continue to contribute to your success then,” she said graciously, wondering if her offer had been in error.

“Speaking of mines,” Varys cut in, “our information on the gold that Cersei was having transported was sound, I do hope. Were you able to recover it, Your Grace?” he asked with an arch of an eyebrow directed towards her.

“Gold? Oh, right,” she nodded, trying to recall just how many carts had been left after Drogon’s air strike. “I’m afraid there was no gold recovered from the supply train, Lord Varys.” She picked up her glass of wine to take a sip, her gaze on Jon Snow. “There wasn’t much of anything left by the time her army fell,” she added after setting the glass down. “Fire goes where it chooses once it’s been unleashed,” she noted coldly. “I could hardly be expected to know which covered wagon held what supplies to remove them from being a target.”

“I see,” Lord Varys said in that critical way of his. It grated on her last nerve.

“Do you?” she asked, her patience quick to crumble. “It’s unfortunate that your spies weren’t able to inform you that the mines of Casterly Rock and all its food stores had been emptied, Lord Varys. That would have been useful information before I sent all of my Unsullied to capture a pointless stronghold.”

The table was quiet as everyone cast their eyes to their food, a discomfiture settling around the party. Lord Varys hung his head with humility.

“I do apologize, Your Grace, for the oversight. It appears Lord Tywin had worked diligently to keep the empty mines a secret from the realm. My … little birds have had their wings clipped in many places. But the food being burned … this does pose a problem. Unless, of course, you don’t plan on feeding the captured infantry?”

“Wasn’t the initial plan to lay siege to King’s Landing?” she snapped. _Commit to the blockade,_ her Hand had insisted, _it’s still the right plan_. “So we know for certain that the food won’t arrive at the capital, which will now become Cersei’s problem. As for the Lannister soldiers we turned, they will make do; Tyrion will see to it.”

“Tyrion split your forces, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah said boldly. “And left it to you to clean up his mistakes. Should you have left him to organize the spoils?” His words only reinforced her gratitude to have him returned, his wisdom a constant she had surely missed.

All eyes turned to her as the suggestion that her Hand had made serious missteps continued to take hold. “Tyrion is a clever man,” she said generously, hearing Lady Olenna in her head spout her views on clever men. “We need to rein in our arrogance if we are to move forward, and not underestimate our enemies,” she said pointedly to Varys. He bowed his head in deference to her.

“Sometimes it takes more than cleverness to win wars,” Ser Davos said softly, before lifting a spoon to slurp his soup.

Daenerys turned to the man on her right. “Is that a view you share, Jon Snow?” She gave him an encouraging smile. After all, his advice had been more useful to her than her entire small council’s insight put together. _If you use them to melt castles, and burn cities, you’re not different. You’re just more of the same._ He’d been candid where others had been chastising. The young king looked caught off guard as he turned to answer her, but took a beat to think on it, his brow furrowing in his pretty little face.

“I wouldn’t say it precludes it, Your Grace,” he said carefully. “To be victorious in battle most definitely requires a well-thought out strategy, of course. But there are times … experience as a soldier can be a benefit. I’m afraid I’ve learned the hard way that one can have the best plan in the world and still watch it go to shit when things happen that you haven’t prepared for. The more experience one has in battle, the more it teaches you to anticipate every possible wrinkle. In so many cases throughout history, we’ve seen that a proper defense can change the outcome of any war.”

She thought of the harpoon that had pierced Drogon, the device that had lobbed it a new tactical approach which she was sure would be used again. “So you’re saying I shouldn’t have my Hand as my general? That perhaps Grey Worm’s skills as a battle commander would have been more valuable here?” she asked, catching Missandei’s eyes at the end of the table and throwing her a secretive smile. “Surely one can read about those great battles in history, as you mention, and discern what will work best?”

“I’m saying that … we learn from our experiences, that the past can inform our decisions. What might appear best in theory doesn't always work in practice.” He nodded in Ser Davos’s direction. “I’ve known my share of smart men. And their best lessons were often about accepting failure as an inevitability and then putting it to use.”

“Do you not count yourself in the ranks of these smart men, then, Jon Snow?” she teased with a smirk, enjoying the blush that rose to his cheeks instantly. His eyes widened as he searched for an answer.

“I … I wouldn’t consider myself on the level of intelligence of your Hand, Your Grace. You are lucky to have him.”

“And who _are_ these wise men that have taught you, Your Grace?” Varys asked of Jon Snow. “You obviously spent some time with Stannis Baratheon. Would you consider him a mentor? Certainly his _experiences_ did not serve him well when it came to some of his decisions.”

Again, he looked surprised by the question and took a beat before answering her Master of Whisperers.

“I learned many things from the man,” he said graciously, all he was willing to offer on Stannis as he promptly took a drink of wine from his glass. She noticed that Ser Davos had snapped his head up and was leveling Varys with a hard look. Then Jon Snow turned his attention across from him to Ser Jorah.

“Although I would say to you, Ser Jorah, that your father was instrumental in my journey from a boy to a man, most definitely. As his steward, he was a great mentor for me. He told me once, if you want to lead, learn how to follow. A truth I still find value in.”

“And how do you think that applies to good leadership?” she asked, honestly curious. “To be a follower?” She’d only ever followed Viserys and that had led to disastrous results.

“Because it makes you look beyond yourself, beyond what you think you know. You become part of a bigger machine, and it instills a feeling of purpose to do your part, to contribute to the greater whole, in order to achieve any success. I think that, when you take on the mantle of a leader, you are reminded of what it was like to be in your men’s boots every time you see their faces, to know those consequences intimately, and that there is a cost you must always be mindful of. How you manage to reach them, to inspire them to work together, I think is the backbone of a good leader. A good queen,” he amended, with a shy smile. “I would imagine a woman who inspired not only the Unsullied, but the Dothraki to fight for her, surely isn’t lacking in that quality.”

He was definitely charming when he wanted to be, she thought.

“And what of your own father, Your Grace?” Varys interjected. “Surely Lord Eddard Stark’s son was left with a profound sense of his honour and nobleness, and how the people respond to it. Your father’s legacy continues, it would seem.”

Oddly, Jon Snow did not look pleased by the compliment, as a disturbance rippled across his features, his face almost sickly for a moment before he recovered swiftly, plastering an empty smile upon those delicate lips.

“My father … was the finest man I ever knew,” he said. His eyes darkened for a moment, as his gaze hardened towards Varys. “Were you there when he was executed, my lord?”

“I was,” Varys admitted immediately. “In fact, I was mere feet from him when the blade came down. I can still recall your sister’s screams from behind me. How she had pleaded for him so sweetly before the court, and how ruthlessly Joffrey later mocked it. The poor girl had so believed for a moment that your father would be spared. It was a cruel spectacle, to be sure.”

Daenerys flashed her eyes towards Jon Snow, watching as he swallowed visibly, centering himself before responding.

“And you believed him a traitor?” he asked guardedly, his voice controlled. “You call him honourable yet you believed my father guilty of his crimes? Did you mock him with the others?”

“Of course not. I knew your father's claims were the truth, that he committed no treason. But I advised him to confess to it.”

Jon Snow startled, shock drawing over his features. “What?”

“Perhaps we should speak of other things,” Daenerys advised, cautioning Varys with a look.

“No, Your Grace, it’s all right,” Jon Snow replied, holding up a hand. “Please. I’d like Lord Varys to finish.” He looked back to her spy. “Why would you send him to his death?”

“To save your sisters,” Varys shot back. “And him. I visited your father in the black cells. More than once. He was waiting to die, wanting to stand on his honour and not give an inch. He told me that he grew up with soldiers, and so he had learned how to die a long time ago. Until I reminded him who would suffer the most.” Varys shrugged. “I thought that Cersei would allow him to take the black, to stay the rest of his days with you and your uncle. But Joffrey outmaneuvered everyone. I remember running to him when he passed your father’s sentence, begging him to reconsider. But Joffrey was set on it, a shock to us all.”

The young king appeared dumbfounded, unable to speak, and Daenerys could see his pain there so plainly on the surface. She wanted to soothe him and so she stepped in again, her glance cutting as she eyed Varys with a sharp warning.

“And what of the Wall?” she asked in the resounding silence, putting a comforting hand on Jon Snow’s wrist, to still his fingers twitching upon the table. He jerked his head towards her, his eyes deep with their wounds. “That must have been a difficult place to live,” she continued. “So cold and unforgiving. I imagine you have many tales from the land beyond it. Won’t you tell us about this place where the dead rise, Jon Snow?”

“Your Hand has been there,” he replied, his tone measured as he pulled his arm from her hold to pick up his wine glass. “Has he not regaled you with his short time at Castle Black?”

“My Hand is not here,” she said. “He talks enough when he is. I wish to hear _your_ adventures, Jon Snow.”

He shook his head. “There’s not much to tell, Your Grace. Perhaps it is considered an adventure to survive. Everything beyond the Wall is covered in ice and snow, as far as the eye can see. It is a dangerous place but with its own beauty. Much like the rest of the North.”

“Ser Davos has spoken of some marvelous things that he’s seen up there,” Missandei said kindly, looking to the man next to her with a tender smile. “He mentioned you have giants past the Wall, that one of them helped you in the fight for your home. That must be quite a thing to see.”

“Indeed it is,” Ser Davos chimed in, glancing from Missandei to both her and his king with some relief upon his face. “You should tell her about Wun Wun, Your Grace.”

“Wun Wun?” she echoed with a giddy delight, turning back to Jon. “Yes, please. I wish to hear of this.”

And then Jon Snow began to talk.

* * *

“Your Grace, would you be inclined towards some company on your jaunt along the battlements?” he asked as they made their way from her solar, his smile tentative. “I would be keen to join you, if you’re up for it.”

She’d excused herself as the men and Missandei continued the dinner conversation, with the intention of a walk outside. She needed some air. The thrill of battle from the day before still rang through her, and that nervous energy chewed through her patience. She was too anxious to sit still for very long. When Jon excused himself as well, she found herself excited.

“I would find it most pleasing,” she said, feeling the truth of it. He was a thoughtful man, she’d decided, if quite serious, but she’d detected some notes of humour during the evening, as the talk had turned to less politicized subjects.

They came through the receiving room and made their way to the exit, the doors wide open with the guards posted on either side. When they stepped to the landing outside, Daenerys breathed in deeply, the ocean air a needed tonic to clear her head. They approached the first of many steps and Jon Snow held out his arm for her to take. She beamed at him as she took it and together they began the descent downwards.

“I hope Lord Varys’s comments did not make the evening unbearable for you,” she offered in apology. He had looked so crestfallen.

“Of course not, Your Grace. I have heard many things about my father over the years. My sister has shared her own stories of what happened that day in front of Baelor’s statue. It hadn’t occurred to me that Lord Varys was likely in attendance, I suppose. I was simply … jarred by it momentarily.”

“You must miss him,” she said, warmth in her voice. She wished that she’d had a parent she could remember enough to miss. Someone who had loved her and guided her, and cared enough to give her lessons with which to live her life by, as Ned Stark had obviously done for his children. Viserys had been a poor substitute, his attention only on regaining what he’d lost, and all of his joy fixed firmly in the past.

“Aye, I do,” he said solemnly. He locked eyes with hers and Daenerys was once again struck by the sadness that dwelt there. “I miss all of my family, terribly.”

“And you miss your home.” She could see it in him without having to ask. Waving a hand out towards the bay, the skies silent as her children rested on the eastern side of the cliffs, she wondered if he had found any refuge on the island at all while she’d been gone, her thoughts turning to Ornela and Zhiqi and the stories they’d shared. “Surely there is something here that has provided you with at least one pleasant experience.” She turned to see his eyes widen.

“Yes, there are … things to enjoy here,” he said, his words halting. “I – I took a swim. I’d never swum in the ocean before.”

“Was it lovely?” She hadn’t done such a thing, either. Only the hot baths in Pentos.

He looked down at her with surprise. “It was, actually. I found it quite liberating. And a nice reward after being in the caves all day.”

“And do the men in your guard often let their king strip naked and jump into the sea?” she teased, wishing she’d been around to see it.

Jon Snow blushed so hard it was apparent even in the moonlight and the glow from the torches. “Oh. No. I wasn’t – I had clothes on.”

She glanced down to his heavy armor and raised an eyebrow in doubt.

“Right, I mean, I took off my armor, and my boots, just you know – ” He turned away from her suddenly with a grin. “You’re having a go at me, aren’t you?”

“Mmmhmm,” she hummed.

“Well, as much as the weather is warm and the sea inviting, my mind cannot stray from the coming threat we face,” he admitted, returning to his serious nature. “My people need this dragonglass. But we have other things we need to do to prepare.”

“If you need any more men to assist, you must tell me,” she offered preemptively, not ready to get into another impassioned plea for them to work together. She had too many other problems to sort out. “You shouldn’t be spending all of your days in the caves. It’s not safe and you’re much too important.” He shot a glance to her. “To your people,” she added.

They were walking by another one of the brazier towers, the wind picking up so that tendrils of his hair loosened from his bun flicked about his face most delicately, when he stopped to turn towards her, leaning a shoulder up against the stone column.

“Your Grace, since you brought up my men … I’d like to ask something of you. If that’s all right.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, expecting a request to make some allowances for them. “You may ask.”

Jon Snow looked away towards the water, hair still whipping about his pretty face, his eyes black but shining like the stars. “The … handmaidens you sent me, Your Grace, to … help me in the mornings.” She watched him swallow again before he turned back to her, his eyes downcast. “While I appreciate the gesture, I would very much like to ask that you return a few of my guard to me, so that they might be the ones to tend to those duties.”

“I see.” She knew the reason for his discomfort, but wanted to see if he would tell her himself. “Have Ornela and Zhiqi upset you?”

His eyes snapped up in alarm. “No! Of course not!” he insisted. “They are … they’re lovely women, Your Grace, very kind. And have done nothing wrong. I’ve … I’ve enjoyed speaking with them. They even – ” He stopped, his mouth open for a bit before he laughed. “Well, they taught me some Dothraki, actually.”

“Go on,” she encouraged, a gleeful spirit infecting her. “What did you learn?”

He smiled even wider, a stunning sight, with a shyness in him that she found endearing. “I learned … alright, um, here I go. _Shor tah-wakof_ ,” he said in stilted syllables, while sweeping a hand down his leathers. “They said that was Dothraki for armor.”

“Very good,” she praised as she rested against the same stone. “The Dothraki don’t wear armor, of course. So the phrase is literally translated to mean, steel dress, to describe the garments they’ve seen on Westerosi soldiers.”

“I didn’t think of that. You’re right, they don’t.” He shook his head. “Um, it’s not quite the right time of day for it, Your Grace, but _aena shekhikhi_.”

She was delighted. “Wonderful! They will be so pleased when I tell them how well you did.”

His smile dropped suddenly. “Right. Well, as I said, they are lovely. Perhaps it is different in Essos … but here in Westeros, it is highly unusual for a man to have handmaidens. For women to … draw their bath or … to dress them. That is why I think it would be better for my men to wait on me in the mornings and evenings before bed. Not that I need much. It’s just, you know, the steel dress can be difficult to get on and off by myself.”

“Dothraki women are not so shy,” she said knowingly. “They aren’t shocked easily, even by a man in his bath.”

“I noticed,” he said. “And I’m not shocked easily, either. But it can be … awkward, nonetheless.”

“I understand,” she said, her thoughts on Ornela. “Are you sure that is all?”

His eyes went wide again, and for a moment he looked cornered. “Yes.”

She nibbled her lower lip, wondering if she should be frank with him. But then she reminded herself that his candidness was what she liked about him and so plunged ahead.

“You must understand that the Dothraki are a proud, fierce people,” she began. “My _kos_ , my blood riders – I brought them here to fight for me. They guard me. They take care of their horses. But cleaning and cooking, helping a king get dressed … these are not things that men in their culture do. That is why they had slaves, until I freed the slaves. I needed to bring some women to help run things.” And thankfully, she had Missandei to organize everyone’s duties. Varys was also useful in keeping those serving the fortress in order.

Jon Snow studied her carefully. “All right. I can see that. That is why I asked for my own men.”

But that hadn’t been her point. “Ornela and Zhiqi, they are not maidens, nor wives of the horse lords. They are _khaleesi_ , the wives of a _khal_. Their _khals_ died, however, and according to Dothraki law this means that they must spend the rest of their days in a holy temple in the city of Vaes Dothrak, beneath the Mother of Mountains.”

“Is this temple the dosh Khaleen?” he asked, surprising her. It must have shown on her face, because he added more in a rushed breath. “Ornela mentioned it.”

“Dosh Khaleen isn’t a place, it’s the widows themselves,” she explained. “They are given respect and enjoy an exalted status among the Dothraki, for their wisdom and forecasts into the future. Some are known to be seers.”

“So then, if they are _khaleesi_ , why are they serving as my handmaidens?”

“They aren’t, really. They are handmaidens to _me_ , their queen. Not all of the women wanted to live the rest of their days there. Before I went back to Meereen, I offered them a choice. Ornela and Zhiqi wanted to be free, so they came to Westeros with me and act as my handmaidens. It is a great honour for them.”

Jon Snow took in her words, a sober clamp to his jaw. “So what you’re saying is that you gifted them to me, then? And I am tossing your gift back in your face in a show of disrespect.” He looked appalled.

“No, that is not what I’m saying at all,” she rushed, reaching out to hold his wrist again. Ornela’s face came to her, the girl’s tears when she’d explained being turned away at Jon Snow’s door making Daenerys feel the girl’s shame. “Ornela is still young,” she tried to point out. “She was twelve years old when her _khal_ took her for one of his wives. She’s not even Dothraki, but was born in Lhazar, where the Dothraki had raided her village. At thirteen, she was a mother. Sixteen, when her _khal_ died.” She shook her head sadly. “She gave her _khal_ a daughter, and he broke her ribs for it.”

Jon’s face darkened with a flash of anger. “That’s horrible.”

“Yes, it is,” she agreed. She paused, trying to choose her words delicately. “But as you can see, she has thrived here. And she is a very loving person.” She knew the full truth of it. “Ornela … she will often climb into bed with me. It is just her way. When she feels safe with a person.” She could only hope that he would understand her. She hadn’t expected Tyrion to suggest Ornela go to him. She was still angry about that.

Jon Snow sucked in a harsh breath and took a step back from her, his embarrassment quick to rise to his face. He put up both hands to her in apology. “I am so sorry,” he uttered hoarsely. “I did not – I promise you, I did not mean to offend you. Or her. Nothing happened … I mean, she seemed … I am so _very_ sorry, Your Grace.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” she said to him. That both Ornela and Drogon had felt comfortable with Jon Snow spoke volumes to her already. She wanted to know more of this man. “You misunderstand me. I only wanted you to know that Ornela meant no harm. She likes you.”

“And I like her,” he reiterated. “But it is still … it’s an unusual situation. I didn’t really know what to do.”

Most men would have simply taken her, Daenerys voiced inwardly. This king was a gentle soul, something she had not anticipated. Of course, she knew other things about him, too.

“The Dothraki view … relations between a man and woman very differently than we do. They are not precious about the act. Ornela thinks it is she who has offended you. She was quite broken up about it when I returned this afternoon. She told me the guard wouldn’t let her into your chambers by your request. I just wanted you to be aware that … she merely likes the comfort of sleeping next to someone she knows won’t hurt her.”

She watched Jon Snow swallow deeply again, his mouth in a contemplative pout. “Well, I thank you for telling me.” He took a long breath before speaking again, something there in his eyes to suggest he had more to say on the matter. “I … I should tell you also that I saw you, the night before you left.”

She wrinkled her brow at him, not sure to what he was referring. “You saw me?”

“Down on the beach. You were with your Dothraki, performing some sort of ritual, or celebration.” Daenerys was taken aback by his reveal, but instantly curious to know what kind of impression it had made on him. “I was just leaving the caves when it started. Ornela told me that you were all dancing to their horse god, _Vezhof_. You looked like … like you were born Dothraki, so much a part of their world. It made me wonder what it was like for you when you first began living with them. How strange their ways must have seemed. The wedding must have been an interesting affair.”

For a shining second, Daenerys felt herself transported back to that vulnerable, scared little girl again on the night of her wedding, before she pushed her away, not wanting to remember the terror of that first time. And so she turned her eyes to the moon hanging bright over the bay, where the ocean, too, had been a backdrop to her rape. But she couldn’t think like that. She had loved Drogo in her own way.

“I grew used to them,” she said softly.

“Their language is not easy to pronounce,” he shared, his mouth curving into a rueful smile. “But you speak it so fluently. Zhiqi said you have helped her to speak in our tongue, that you are a patient teacher.”

“Yes, well, it is much easier to learn something new when you are surrounded by it,” she said. “And Ser Jorah helped me, back when I first began to speak it.”

His eyebrows darted upward. “Ser Jorah has been with you for a long time then?”

“Yes, he has.” It occurred to her that perhaps she should have taken her stroll with Ser Jorah this night and caught up with her dear friend, but she would make it up to him another evening.

“And he just returned to your service, he said? Where did he go?”

“He had to find something,” she answered simply. A heavy gust off the sea blew over them, his cloak snapping behind him. She had on a dusky rose gown for dinner that had no sleeves again and she shivered. “I’m getting a bit cold. I think we should head back.”

“Of course. Here, wait a moment.” Jon Snow reached up to unlatch the straps that crossed his chest, the cloak loosening from his shoulders. He tugged it from his back and then wrapped its thickness around her, reaching under its fur collar for a moment to strap her in.

She tucked the fur closer around her neck, feeling its warmth. It smelled of him. “Thank you.”

He held out his arm to her again. “Shall we make our way back up?”

Daenerys slid her arm into his. “I’m no longer in a hurry to get inside,” she said, her smile genuine. “Your cloak is so thick it has taken away my chill.”

“Then we can walk to wherever you’d like,” he replied.

She leaned against him for the briefest moment, enjoying the heat of his body. “No, you’re right, we should make our way up. The day has been long and tiring. Lead the way, Jon Snow.” She would sleep soundly tonight, her exhaustion likely to catch up to her the second her head hit the pillow.

* * *

The ocean called to her again.

Its waves crashed against the rocks with explosive intensity, its churning din matching her need to get on with things, the Iron Throne just a stone’s throw away and yet still feeling so far from her reach.

Daenerys made her way down the last set of steps alone, having ordered her _dothrakhqoyi_ to wait for her as they stood at the top of the landing.

Her boots settled into the sand as she trudged toward the cave and when she cast her sight over the tide rushing in on the shore, she imagined again Jon Snow wading out into its depths, plunging into the waves. Strangely, she had dreamed of it, awakening to the sounds of the sea with the picture of Jon Snow walking towards her, his sodden clothes clinging to his body, his hair loose with the ocean dripping to his shoulders.

Ornela had slept on behind her, an arm casually draped across her middle, and for a moment, Daenerys had wished for a man in her bed. It had been a while since her last night with Daario. She thought of Ornela’s avid praise of Jon Snow, how she’d described his attention, that he’d kissed her in the way that women kissed women. Having barred her from coming to his bed again and then asking for his own men to replace her had confused the girl, and so she had turned to Daenerys in the night, her passion and affection a momentary comfort. But Daenerys's head teemed with many questions as she came to stand before the cave’s entrance. She heard plinking sounds from within, a few shouts, and when she walked into its mouth, the darkness swallowed her.

When her eyes acclimated, she saw some men loading up crates at the entrance to one of the many passages. “Hello?” she called, seeing the whites of their eyes pop open to her with surprise.

“Your Grace!” one of the men called, as he rushed forward. He bowed to her once he stood before her. “Are you looking for the king?”

A flash of annoyance ran through her. She was not there to defer to Jon Snow.

“I wish to see him,” she announced, her voice steely. “Tell him the queen has requested his presence on the beach.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I’ll inform him at once.”

Both men ran off and Daenerys stood a moment longer, letting the coolness of the cavern assuage her heated reaction. There were glittering lights amongst the rock and Daenerys was curious about the obsidian again. It suggested a connection to her dragons, this place, and she found it worth noting that this self-proclaimed king sought it as an agent for their survival.

Her thoughts seemed to summon him, for Jon Snow came walking out of the passage the next second. His ever present expression of surprise was upon his face again as he came towards her, a torch in hand held high to light his way.

“Your Grace? You didn’t have to come here yourself. Did you have need of me?” He stepped closer to her, the surprise quickly turning to concern.

“Yes. I would ask that you take a break from your endeavor and escort me on a walk to check on Drogon and visit with my children. If that’s all right.”

His eyes widened. “Oh. Why, of course. I would be … delighted.”

As they came out of the cave and into the bright sun, Daenerys saw his forehead ran with sweat, the wisps of his curls fluttering around his temple soaked with it.

“The mining is hard work, by the looks of it. Perhaps later, you can take another swim,” she teased, her smile warm.

Jon Snow smiled back humbly, his eyes cast to his feet. “I might. I could use a bath.” He stepped by the rocks and tipped his torch downward until it sunk into the sand, the fire extinguished. He left it poking out of its station and came up by her side. “Which way, Your Grace?”

Back on the cliffs again, she saw all three of her children clustered by the outskirts of the fortress, the tower keeping them shaded on this corner of the island. They slept fitfully, their grunts and groans intermittent, and as she and Jon Snow approached, he paused in his steps to glance at her curiously.

“You weren’t planning on waking them up, were you?” he asked, his mouth upturned with his mirth, but his nervousness plain.

“Don’t worry, you’ve already passed Drogon’s inspection,” she noted in cheek. “Rhaegal and Viserion follow their brother.”

He looked over their behemoth shapes lying across the grass, their scales glistening with a refracted light. “So … all boys. That’s unfortunate. Although, according to my friend, Sam, Maester Aemon always believed that dragons had no fixed sex; that they could change at will.” In a sudden movement, he whipped his face to hers, his mouth open as if he’d just remembered something.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I realized that I’ve never told you,” he shared, his manner returning to a relaxed stance. “Our maester at Castle Black, he was a Targaryen. Your great-great uncle, in fact.”

“You knew this man? I take it he’s no longer alive?” She thought she’d been the last of her House.

“I did, indeed. He was one of the smart men I spoke of, a wise and caring soul. I learned much from him and was saddened when he passed.” Jon nodded towards the fortress. “He used to serve here, under his brother, Prince Daeron. He chose to go to the Wall, in order to protect his family. He told me how his vows had been tested many times, but none so harshly as when he heard what had happened to the children of your brother, Your Grace.” He met her eyes, an earnestness alight in them as he illustrated the connection for her. “It made an impact on me. When I struggled in keeping my own vows to stay there, knowing my brother was taking an army to fight for vengeance in the wake of our father’s beheading. He reminded me of my duty, and I thank him for that every day.”

“Your duty is important to you,” she stated, seeing it clearly. “Your duty to your people, in keeping them from harm, is worthy of respect.” She started to walk forward, through the lane of grass afforded between Drogon’s and Viserion’s heads. Jon Snow followed, keeping in step next to her.

“And what of your vows now?” she asked, curious. “I don’t know much about the Night’s Watch. Were you given a pardon to leave?”

Jon Snow sidestepped Viserion’s snout, his concentration fixed on the ground. “Not exactly,” he said.

She put her hand out to his wrist, making him look at her. He snapped his eyes up to lock with hers, appearing undecided for a moment.

“It’s a bit complicated,” was all he would divulge.

“But you were the Lord Commander. Who runs the Night’s Watch now? Surely, you can’t do both?”

“There aren’t many sworn brothers left; we’ve taken so many losses. The order is a shell of what it once was. I … left someone in command. And sent ranks to man Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. We all have one fight now.”

“I see.” She didn’t really, but he was not forthcoming on any more detail. “If I were your queen, I would allow you to leave the order and remain as Warden to the North, Jon Snow. We would help each other.”

“Aye, I don’t doubt that you would. But it’s not that simple.”

“It can be,” she insisted.

He turned quiet as their stroll took them past Rhaegal, his massive head nestled towards his neck. There was a growl behind them and as both turned, Drogon awoke, sniffing the air as he eyed her guest, the slits of his pupils opening with a quick flash before he blinked back at them with a trilling note. She’d walked him right into their midst, yet Jon Snow was unafraid and her children seemed to accept him.

“Drogon seems to like you,” she said, still feeling her surprise at the news. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him take that much notice of anyone else unless he was getting ready to eat them.”

Jon Snow threw her a curious look. “Should I be worried?” He grinned at her, quite disarmingly. “I suppose that’s one way to get rid of me.”

“I should like to hear more of your dead men and giants, Jon Snow. I’m not quite done with you yet.” She found it easy to talk to him, his musings no longer likely to be the ravings of a madman. “And the stories of the North, as well. You speak very fondly of your home.”

They left her children to walk along the cliff’s edge. A gust of wind was caught up in her skirt, dragging her forward in its pull, but then his grip was on her arm, keeping her in place. “Watch your step,” he told her as he moved her away from the rocks, putting his body to the other side of her as protection. Daenerys felt a thrill rise in her as she watched him in profile, his seriousness suddenly much more attractive.

“And what of _your_ home, Your Grace?” he asked. He glanced towards her with an openness that she once again found refreshing. “Do you miss it?”

“My home is the Red Keep,” she said without hesitation. “Everywhere else has simply been a … temporary residence. My brother and I never stayed in one place for long. Even here, the place where I was born – I feel no connection to it.”

It was a truth that she did not utter often, even to herself, and that she would share it with this man surprised her. She didn’t even voice such things to Tyrion. It made her feel lonely, sometimes, while also reaffirming her belief in her destiny. Of course it would stand to reason that no other place could fulfill her. She was different, and having no ties to any one country meant that she could be all things to everyone. Yet to have a home – one to share with a family of her own, was something that Daenerys longed for.

“That must be hard,” he replied, empathy in his voice. “To not feel part of a place, land that you know in your bones. Did you not have somewhere you recall fondly from when you were a child?”

She thought of one house, its red door and lemon trees in the garden a distant but treasured memory. “A few. But I don’t remember much at all. I feel like I’ve been roaming my entire life.”

“And your brother?” he inquired with some interest. “What was he like? The two of you must have been very close, with just each other to rely on for family.”

She sighed. She didn’t really want to talk about Viserys. “I wouldn’t say that exactly,” was all she would say on the matter. Daenerys turned to him. “You said you miss your family, but Tyrion says at least one of your sisters is alive and well, his former bride. Are you very close to her?”

She watched his brow furrow most heavily, his mouth pursed as he contemplated her question, giving Daenerys another opportunity to notice his full lips. He opened his mouth to speak, still pausing for a breath before answering, his gaze on the ground as he stopped walking.

“My sister and I … often have different opinions on how to protect our people. On how to … how to rule. But her many years in King’s Landing have given her a special insight, I suppose, on the way things are done. We get on well.” He looked up at her in all of his seriousness. “Although I worry about her, of course.”

The relationship sounded awkward to her ears, but she didn’t comment on it. “If you’re her king, surely she listens to you, ultimately. To do otherwise would be treason.”

His eyes widened. “Siblings bicker from time to time, but Sansa would never betray me,” he stated, the timbre of his voice registering his complete faith. “I trust her with my life.”

“Then you are lucky, Jon Snow,” she said softly, remembering the way Viserys had poised his sword towards her swollen belly with such hatred. “Tyrion speaks very highly of her, and says she is quite beautiful.” She glanced in his direction and again, he seemed troubled.

“Aye, she is,” he agreed, offering no other commentary. Daenerys looked across to the sea before turning back to the rising fortress behind her, now hiding the lowering sun. They were near the guest keep.

“Well, I guess I shall prepare for the evening’s dinner then,” she said as they drew closer. She glanced at him shyly. “Can I expect to see you in attendance? Tyrion should be arriving with the fleet before then, if he hasn’t already landed. I would like for you to be there to shield me from his lectures. We can hear more tales of the North, instead.”

“As you wish, Your Grace,” he said with a small smile. He looked ahead to the fortress doors. “I may try to get a bit more work in first. I suppose I’ll have to forgo that swim,” his smile grew wider, “but I will be there for dinner. Shall I take you inside?”

“No, it’s all right,” she assured him. “I’ll let you get back to your dragonglass. Till this evening, then, Jon Snow.”

“Till this evening, Your Grace.” He bent his head to her and then smiled again, a dazzling one filled with warmth and decency. Daenerys turned away from him to make her way to the doors, a flutter of butterflies low in her belly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty sure its the rules that Jon must give Dany his cloak at some point. It is known. Just a staple of every jonerys fic I've ever read and I will always love it. 
> 
> We're going to pretend that Qhono has a twin and that's why he was able to be at the battle of the Goldroad and be back at Dragonstone so quickly to escort Jorah to Dany.
> 
> Also, I totally understand why Dany would be dreaming of  
> [this](https://66.media.tumblr.com/1ea39e344adcd8c2d3380bfd63fb4c01/tumblr_prlkvhYCh31tvqjwdo1_400.png)


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! How is Covid Summer going, all? This chapter came together fairly quickly, with some dialogue courtesy of 7x05 and Dave Hill. I did it, I took on the Wight Plan. Come at me, bro. Jon's mic drop response to Dany in this episode always gives me a thrill, like Jesse Pinkman telling Walter to get the fuck out of his house and never come back.
> 
> This chapter goes out to MagnusXXZ and all of you commenters in my Ornela fan club. Y'all are giving me some really naughty ideas, you cheeky readers. I'm having a hard time restraining myself, lol.
> 
> Thanks again to aflashofgreen for her helpful notes. The message from Sansa in this chapter also came from the show, with me filling in the parts I couldn't make out. Whoever the raven scroll person was, I admire their level of dedication to detail.
> 
> Also, we will be wrapping Dragonstone very soon, with some jumps in time. I'm chomping at the bit to get to boatsex, I won't lie.

**.xxiv**

Daenerys walked along the bluffs, the wind whipping her dress around her boots. Her long strides were as unwavering as her confidence, each step full of purpose as she came towards him, her dragons waking up behind her as they took notice of him. The split pupils of their reptilian eyes dilated sharply as their focus turned in his direction.

“My children want to know you,” she said as she stopped before him, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Just who do you think you are?”

Jon took a step back as the dragons raised their heads slowly, tufts of smoke swirling from their great nostrils. “I am a king,” he told her, wanting her to see him.

Her children opened their mouths and Jon saw the flames flicker into being deep in their gullets. He felt the heat swamp him, and it was electric, his sight only on the fire in their mouths as the air turned acrid, a molten warmth climbing inside of him trying to get out.

Daenerys shook her head in pity as she clasped her hands before her heart. “You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

The dragons stood to their full terrifying height. “Wait,” Jon called, “I’m not ready.” But then he saw the flames, forming into a fireball that shot straight towards him, everything turning a blazing orange.

“Not yet,” he gasped as he startled awake.

Jon lay in his bed, his body soaked with sweat and curled around another. For a split second, he hoped for blonde hair where his mouth rested, a tickle on his lips, until his sight came back to him fully and he saw the rows of braids on the back of Ornela’s head. He jerked back with some knowing, the night before coming back to him in a rush.

He’d had too much to drink again.

Tyrion had not arrived with her ships as expected and the evening had turned somewhat merry without him, a tacit agreement amongst them all to spend their dinner without any talk of the ongoing war. Missandei had given him and Ser Davos a few more lessons in Dothraki, as well as some useful words in High Valeryian, and Daenerys had watched him with amusement as he tried to repeat the words in a passable accent. He’d felt simultaneously foolish and free, losing himself in the moment as the conversation turned to the varying beliefs around the East, how they were often a mirror to the West even for all their differences. Ser Jorah spoke eloquently of the things he had seen, the people he had met, how it had been humbling to be on the other side of the sale of a slave, an understanding resonating within him that all people must rise up against those who would enslave them, always, even when the chains weren’t made physical.

The dessert plates had been taken away and more wine had been poured, and then someone had suggested they move the conversation to the outside balcony to enjoy the night breeze. Jon had sat at one corner in a comfortable chair, closest to the edge, watching one of the dragons – Rhaegal, he thought – fly close to the fortress, sailing over Jon’s side with its wings spanned to their fullest extent and a screech into the night. A few members of their party seemed spooked and looked nervously to Daenerys, Ser Davos turning to Jon with an inquisitive rise of his eyebrows high atop his forehead. They all felt the gust of hot air from under the flap of Rhaegal’s wings whoosh over the balcony, ruffling the skirts of the women’s gowns and knocking over a glass perched by Varys’s side.

“Do they always skim that close, Your Grace?” Davos asked Daenerys as a servant rushed out to clean up the spilled wine.

“Not usually, no. I think they want to play, Ser Davos,” she answered teasingly, languishing elegantly against the long chair that allowed her to rest her legs upon it, her wine in hand. “Drogon is still recuperating and won’t give his brothers any attention. Perhaps it is Jon Snow’s attention they seek in the interim.”

“Me?” he had responded with a grin, feeling quite at ease by then. “I can’t imagine what would possess them to seek out my favor if they are indeed looking for a playmate.”

“Don’t you?” she had asked, that gleam in her eye that sent his heart racing, and her gaze fixed solely on him as she took another sip of her red. It was quite a powerful sensation to be studied by Daenerys Stormborn and he felt his face flush hotly at her bold stare. He smiled back at her, hoping it was a match to her confidence.

“I think my sister would find such a notion greatly amusing,” he said with some self-deprecation. “I tended to be the dour one among my siblings. Much too sulky and serious for playing.”

“Well, whichever one it was, he wanted to play with you that morning on the beach, as well, Your Grace.” Ser Davos took another glance out into the skies. “They’re curious about ye.”

Daenerys looked as though she was about to comment when Ser Jorah spoke up in his soft and measured Northern voice. “I can still recall them as babes.” He held out his hand, turned upward. “Drogon could fit right in the palm of your hand, Your Grace, and they would sing their sweet songs to you. Do you remember?” He sat by her side in a hardback chair, holding himself stiffly as he swiveled his head to regard her with a weathered smile.

Jon felt a rise in him, as he wondered again at the relationship. The knight had known her a long time and Daenerys obviously held much affection for him. But the way Ser Jorah looked at her could only be categorized as worshipful.

“Of course. A mother will always have a special memory in her heart of the days when her children would nuzzle at her breast, so eager for her love.” A sudden sadness had flashed over her face and then she caught herself, her eyes opening wider with a marked enthusiasm. “They are much more useful to me now, however.”

“You took only Drogon to the battle, Your Grace. Is he the only one you ride?” Ser Davos asked, from his seat next to a potted bush that hung with figs.

“I bonded to him, yes. He took me out of the fighting pits when we were attacked by the Sons of the Harpy. My poor child had been wounded back then, as well.”

Jon noticed that Varys had whipped his head towards her in consternation. “And the conversation has been so free of unpleasantness this night, Your Grace,” he said unctuously. “Perhaps we should leave Meereen for another time. Surely the King in the North has more tales for us?”

“How _did_ Drogon get wounded?” Ser Davos interjected.

Daenerys shook her head. “I’m not sure what it was, to be honest, as I didn’t get a close enough look at it before Drogon destroyed it. But the design has given it enough power to shoot its harpoons to a great distance. Drogon and I were almost a mile away in the air and it still arrived with some bite, piercing his scales where arrows had failed.”

“You describe a ballista,” Jon said excitedly, recalling illustrations in the books he’d read as a child, with the less sophisticated ones they’d kept at Castle Black still a thrill to wield. “So Cersei was prepared for your dragons, then. That certainly changes things.”

They all looked to him, Daenerys sitting up in her seat.

“You think they could be mounting more of them?”

Jon looked across their expectant faces and opened his hands in askance. “Without question. If they’ve already tried one then there will be more waiting in the wings. And as it made contact with your dragon, Your Grace, that information will most assuredly make its way to the capital. All it takes is one soldier to have escaped enemy lines.” He glanced to Varys, wondering how much he had known about the device. “It’s an effective piece of artillery. As you say, it carries a lot of power. The gears are massive yet work with a pristine accuracy. We used a version on the top of the Wall when we fought the wildlings. It is how we were able to take down one of the giants.”

“The scorpions had been buried down in the bowels of the Red Keep long after the days of Balerion the Dread,” Varys noted, his brow deeply furrowed with great worry, “and so it appears they’ve been resurrected. I didn’t think Cersei was even aware of them.”

“Scorpions?” Daenerys put down her wine. “Why wasn’t I told of this before?” she asked sharply.

“You _were_ told of the danger to yourself, Your Grace,” Lord Varys insisted. “It only takes one arrow, Missandei reminded you, but you felt you should be the one to go.”

“There was only a handful left at one time, Your Grace,” Ser Jorah said, appearing to defend Lord Varys. “It’s been over three hundred years since anyone thought to use one against a dragon. They are smaller and can be transported, unlike the ballistae. Cersei has someone on her council who knows his history. It isn’t arrows that you should be focused on.”

“Aye, I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s more of ‘em mounted along the walls of King’s Landing,” Davos suggested. “They were used during the Battle of the Blackwater against our ships. Before the wildfire came and blew us apart.”

It was quiet for a moment as everyone absorbed the news in their own way.

“That’s how Rhaenys Targaryen was killed,” Jon suddenly offered into the hushed silence, a rising concern for Daenerys giving him an odd squirming in the pit of his stomach. “Meraxas was hit, a harpoon fatally piercing her eye through to her skull.” He recalled reading the story aloud to Arya, how she would beg him to before bed, hanging on his every word with eyes like saucers. “And Rhaenys fell to her death.”

Daenerys looked unsettled and Jon had felt a slip of regret that he’d brought it up, wanting to keep her in high spirits for the evening.

“So we shall be ready for them next time,” she said, her voice ringing across the balcony with decisiveness, the strength there sparking a little thrill in him.

“Shall I pour you some more wine, Your Grace?” Missandei sat next to the queen and gave her an encouraging smile, one meant to soothe her, Jon guessed.

“Thank you,” she granted as Missandei had tipped the carafe on their low table, one filled with plates of cheeses and dried figs. Daenerys had shot a glance back to him, catching him staring at her. “So tell us, Jon Snow. How did you manage to bring the wildlings over to your side? You fought them so valiantly, and yet they still chose to follow you?”

Jon had been somewhat surprised by her forwardness, as once again all faces turned towards him. He had been on his fourth glass of wine at that point and had felt a growing cockiness spread throughout him.

“The wildlings don’t follow me,” he said with a sly grin. “They kneel to no one. That was the first thing I learned when I lived among them, and grew to understand their king beyond the Wall.”

“And how does one manage to call himself king if no one kneels to him?” Daenerys replied smartly, a fetching smirk at her lips.

He laughed softly, and the others followed, as Jon cast his gaze to his wine. He liked that she had a sharp wit. “Aye, that did pose its problems. The first time I was taken to Mance Rayder, I dropped to my knees, wanting to impress upon him that I desired to be one of them. I received a round of laughter for my earnestness. I wasn’t even kneeling to the right person.”

That brought more laughter, Daenerys among them, her eyes crinkled as her mouth opened wide, the merriment changing her appearance to one more girlish and youthful.

“I would have liked to have seen that,” she said with another devilish smirk.

“And so how _did_ you ingratiate yourself into their tribe, Your Grace?” Varys asked. “What else did you learn?”

“Well,” he had begun, ready with another anecdote, when a startling image of Ygritte standing nude before him plopped into his mind. He paused, trying to collect himself as the grief flared for a moment, Ygritte morphing into Sansa climbing into his bed. What was he thinking to be flirting with this queen?

He sat up and straightened his shoulders, his gaze only on Daenerys. “That they knew about the dead already. That they only wished to find their way to safety on the other side of the Wall, so that their children might live.” He shook his head as he thought back to those first weeks in their camps. “And that they weren’t one tribe; they were almost a hundred clamoring voices. The Thenns had their own ways, as terrifying and brutal as they are, while the cave people clung to their beliefs and rituals. And on it went; the voices as varied as the kingdoms of Westeros, in a multitude of languages. These tribes had been fighting amongst themselves for years, yet Mance Rayder managed to convince them to band together, to save their people. I learned what was ultimately at stake from him.”

“And then you were able to get all of these tribes to fight for _you_ , as Ser Davos informed us at our first meeting,” Daenerys said. “Not because of a birthright. What did you promise them?”

“That I would fight for them when the real war began,” he answered simply.

There was a brief pause as his words hung in the air, and then Ser Davos had backed him up with a story from the battle to take back Winterfell, how a Northerner and a wildling had become great friends after one had saved the other from a charging Bolton.

The chatter had gone back to lighter topics, and Jon had found himself finishing off yet another glass of wine, his eyes continually drawing to Daenerys no matter who spoke. Lord Varys had asked about Stannis again, asking Ser Davos how Jon’s rule differed, an obvious ploy to give his man the opportunity to talk him up to the queen.

“Well, for one thing, he’s got better hair,” Ser Davos quipped, laughter instantly tittering around their circle as Jon grinned, the teasing putting him at ease.

“I’m serious,” Davos insisted grandly, a wry smile in his face. “You wouldn’t be laughing if you’d witnessed it in its full glory. The curls of an angel.”

“Then surely we must be treated to this marvelous wonder,” Daenerys had insisted, her grin still wide.

Jon had held up his hands to them. “Now let’s not get carried away,” he’d said with some humility, heat in his face. “Besides, it might not be at its best today.” He hadn’t washed it the entire week she’d been gone to the mainland, keeping it in its bun as best he could while working in the caves. He’d been too tired by the end of the day to do much else, and had only bathed for her return.

“We must see about that then,” she’d added, her confidence so alluring. “Perhaps Zhiqi and Ornela can braid it for us again.”

They had teased him further until he’d realized he’d better excuse himself to his chambers before Ser Davos would have to carry him there, more wine magically topped up in his glass. Even still, Davos had accompanied him once they’d bid goodnight to the queen and her guests, the party at its end. Jon had briefly thought of taking a swim in the Blackwater, feeling so loose and carefree on the way back to his room.

But now he was in his bed, with Ornela blinking back at him, the smile forming on her lips one of contentment. He’d lifted the ban at his door, his guard eyeing him warily as he’d tried to explain in bad Dothraki that the girls were allowed entry again, a feeling pervasive that Daenerys sharing Ornela’s story had meant to be an encouragement of sorts. He was not surprised to see the girl next to him, but was concerned with whatever may have happened in the night while he was sodden with drink. At least he still had on his nightshirt. He had no memory of her slipping into his bed but was thankful she hadn’t come upon him tending to the belt for his evening’s purification. He’d been in no frame of mind for it, as he had the week he’d been left to his own devices during Daenerys’s absence. While his scabbard and sword were still being held, curiously, he’d found a thick belt hanging off the back of his bed’s headboard. He took it as a sign and Jon had spent several days with the steady throb in his thigh a sobering reminder of what he had done.

Ornela smiled down to him. “Khal Jon. You need bath.”

“Is that your way of telling me I stink?” he huffed with a chuckle. He rolled to his back and stretched his arms above his head.

“Khaleesi say I wash _khal_ hair today.” She was sitting up, looking down at him with what appeared to be some shyness in her gaze, an unusual trait for her.

“Did she?” he asked, amused, as parts of the evening’s conversation came back to him. “Was that a direct order?”

Ornela tilted her head, briefly confused. “Khaleesi say you pretty.”

“She what?” He didn’t know how to feel about that, but realized he needed to get out of bed if he didn’t want things to grow any more awkward in Ornela’s presence.

Her expression altered as she watched him, her smile slowly coming back. “Khaleesi like you,” she said knowingly with a nod to him, as she brushed the flop of curls away from his eye.

“Did she tell you that, too?”

She shrugged. “I know.”

“Is it known?” He grinned back at her, still feeling a bit sleepy as she stroked a hand down his shirt, until it slipped under his sheets and settled around the hardness between his legs. He woke up in a hurry, sliding himself upward.

“I take care of Khal Jon,” she offered again. She was certainly persistent.

“It’s all right. I’ll be fine.” Jon sat up, slipping his fingers into hers while tenderly sliding her hand away. “I’ll take that bath now.” He needed her out of his bed before Kevven arrived.

******

“So, what do we think happened there?” Ser Davos asked him later, as they sat on his balcony breaking their fast together. It had become something of a habit each morning, and a good time for him and Davos to plan their next move.

“Happened where?” he asked while chewing on another fig. They hadn’t had them often in Winterfell, but they were quite delicious fresh off the tree.

“On the Goldroad. Without Tyrion here, it’s hard to get a full picture, and it’d be easier wringing blood from a turnip with Varys. Do you think they hold Jaime Lannister as prisoner? He is the Lord Commander of his sister’s army. I expect he was the one leadin’ them back to King’s Landing.”

“I think we would have heard about it from Daenerys, if they had captured him. Do you think he might be dead? Perhaps this is why Tyrion is late to arrive.”

“The ships returned this morning,” Davos informed him. “While your ladies were givin’ you your bath.” His consistent amusement at that detail was firm in his face. “The queen has asked for you to attend the small council this afternoon in the war room.”

“Do we think that’s good?” he asked, not sure what he should anticipate.

“I don’t _noh_ , but we may get some answers, finally.” He narrowed his eyes to Jon as he picked up his ale. “She likes you, you know.”

Jon let out a small bark of disbelief. This was becoming common knowledge, apparently.

“And why do you say that? Because she didn’t ask me once last night to bend the knee?”

Davos raised an eyebrow. “She’s warmed to you. Aye, that was progress, but she was revealing quite a lot. She trusts you.”

“So what do we think that means then?” he asked, his thoughts pragmatic. “That she might join us in the North to deal with the Night King? Or that she’s simply decided not to set her dragons on me?”

“The work goes well in the caves. With a few more strong men, we can have enough raw obsidian to load up our ship in another week. That still gives you enough time to work on her.”

He shrugged. “I think I’ve told her everything there is to say on the matter. Whether she believes me or not is up to her now.”

“I wasn’t talking about the threat.” Davos shot him an evocative look.

Jon reared his head back, alarmed. “Davos?! What are you suggesting?”

Davos shrugged back. “You know, there’s more than one way to form an alliance, Jon. I’m sure your sister can educate you on the finer points of that process.”

Shock took hold of him; Davos had to be saying this in jest. And Sansa had hardly been involved in any alliances, more like taken hostage for her name.

“What? You’re talking of marriage?” The idea was mad.

“Don’t look so surprised. Surely it’s crossed your mind?”

“Never,” he answered instantly. Davos stared at him in doubt and Jon gave a dry laugh, holding his hands out, feeling foolish having to explain the obvious. “I’m a bastard. What could I possibly offer a Targaryen, the last of her name, the Unburnt, the Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea?”

“Oh, I don’t know, just the entire bloody North,” Davos bounced back. “May I remind you that you _are_ a king, Jon. And you can stay that way while getting her to help us.”

“I know, but – ” He wasn’t able to finish, his mind swirling with mad thoughts, a fear present to entertain such a thing even for a moment. He’d made peace with the fact that he would never have a family of his own, would never hold a son or daughter in his arms, a long time ago. Jon didn’t know how to see a different future for himself. He was a dead man, one who’d defiled his own sister. He didn’t deserve a woman like Daenerys Targaryen. He had nothing to give her.

“I’m just saying, let’s keep all of our cards on the table.”

But Jon was thrown, a sudden irritation with his limitations buzzing in his head.

Later that afternoon, right before Daenerys’s small council was to meet, Jon was brought to the chamber that housed Aegon’s Painted Table. It was as impressive as he’d heard, the entire room opening unto the Blackwater again where the crash of the waves had followed them. Davos had been keen to show the room off, and Jon sensed once more that he still contended with the ghosts from this place, noticing the man had turned grim while they waited for the rest of them. When Varys and Tyrion had come in shortly after, their faces hadn’t looked any better.

“I hear that Theon Greyjoy arrived while we were gone,” Tyrion began immediately, forgoing any greeting. “And has left us already. Did he not feel welcomed?” he asked Jon pointedly.

Jon’s shrug was cavalier. He preferred not to dwell on Theon. “He wanted the queen’s help to rescue his sister. Yara Greyjoy has been kidnapped by her uncle and taken to King’s Landing, by the sound of it. They left shortly after to search for the rest of their men. I suspect he’ll return soon if he still has need of her.” He nodded towards Tyrion. “And how went the cleanup after the battle? It seems you’ve had quite the turnaround in the war with your sister.” Jon thought for a moment how much of this war had been impacted by the bonds between brothers and sisters. Even his battle with Sansa to come here had felt tied to the kingdoms’ struggle for peace.

Tyrion did not bear the face of a man who felt victorious. “We have much to discuss. But first, a raven arrived for you, Your Grace. Marked with the Stark seal.”

Lord Varys held out the scroll to him and Jon quickly snapped it up, wondering what news Sansa was bringing. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. There were too many things that might have gone wrong. He hadn’t heard from Sansa in weeks, and he hadn’t known how to respond to her last missive, her words so careful but obviously bruised.

Just then, Daenerys walked into the room, her hands clasped before her middle, escorted by Ser Jorah. Her regal stature was fully on display as she came to the head of the table, the dragon pin at her shoulder catching a ray of sun that had made its way into the room. They all waited for her to sit down before they could follow, while Jon and Davos remained standing at the other end of the table. The raven scroll was burning a hole in his palm, but he watched Daenerys closely, her playfulness the night before no longer there, replaced instead by her steely facade. He wondered what had changed, a bit of weariness settling in him as he failed again to comprehend the whims of women.

“Thank you for joining us,” she said to him and Davos, before taking in the rest of her council. “Lord Tyrion has given me a full accounting of the troops we’ve acquired as well as any supplies that were spared. But I’d like to take this time to plot our next move forward, with the Unsullied our first order of business.”

“Beg pardon, Your Grace, but the King in the North has received a scroll from Winterfell. We were just about to ask him of its contents.”

“Oh,” she said with a glance in his direction, tossing him a queenly wave of her hand. “Then, please. We should like to hear of your news.”

All eyes turned to him and Jon felt that panic again, as he broke the seal and quickly unfurled it. He saw Sansa’s signature immediately and noticed the body of the message was brief, a more economical version over her last letter to him.

~

_My dearest Jon,_

_Our brother Bran has returned from beyond the wall, possessed with some magical abilities. He can see across vast distances, though, from his visions in the godswood of Winterfell. He warns that the Army of the Dead and its king are marching on the Wall, near Eastwatch by the Sea. Arya has also returned, asking for you._

_Your loving sister, Sansa_

_The Lady of Winterfell_

~

Jon felt the shock run through him like the tremors from an earthquake, multiple punches to his gut from not one but three profound reveals. After so much time having passed, Jon realized he’d been slowly coming to terms with his grief in believing that Arya and Bran had perished, that he would never see them again. But here was the news, right in his hands, that not only had they survived, they were somehow marked, his crippled brother Bran gifted with something incredible. What was he to make of it? Visions and magic? Knowing his own struggles with the mysticism that had resuscitated him, he wondered what this would mean for Bran. That his little brother could now see the Night King was startling information in its own right, a beacon for them all that they could use, but the ringing alarm of his proximity to Eastwatch stopped Jon cold. They’d run out of time. He’d been frolicking in this place flirting with a queen and her maids while his people were possibly weeks from annihilation.

When he looked up from the scroll, he could only see Sansa’s shaking head, her disappointment in him. He shared the news with the rest of them, still stunned by this latest development in his absence. Jon informed them all of the Night King’s progress. This could no longer be a lark for them, an entertaining story over supper. This was real.

“The Wall has kept them out for thousands of years, presumably,” Varys remarked, as if Jon had no understanding of the Wall’s purpose and history. He clenched his teeth so hard it hurt, keeping any cutting remarks to himself.

“I need to go home,” he stated with a renewed conviction. No more fucking about.

“You said you don’t have enough men,” Daenerys reminded him, and a surge of anger welled up in him with frightening speed as he envisioned Sansa screaming the same message at him before the battle. Oh how they were quick to point out the numbers without any solution on how to gain more. He and his people’s backs were against the wall, literally, and he longer had the luxury of debating how they might go about acquiring another army.

“We’ll fight with the men we have,” he said brusquely, echoing his answer to Sansa all those months ago. “Unless you’ll join us?” he lobbed back at her. What other options did they have?

“And give the country to Cersei?” she questioned, a preposterous suggestion by the tone of her voice. “As soon as I march away, she marches in.” Yes, he thought impatiently, that was how it usually worked in a war.

He’d failed to impart to the Mother of Dragons and her cohorts that they would all be dead if they couldn’t fight the Night King, Cersei be damned, and that the Wall wasn’t an impenetrable barrier just because it had never been tested. He felt sick with his failure.

“Perhaps not.”

Tyrion suddenly entered the discussion, his face holding a mix of emotions as he suggested that Cersei might change her stance with some proof. And then he began to lay out a plan, a request for the impossible. Showing her the dead.

“I don’t think she’ll come see the dead at my invitation,” Jon said, the whole notion beginning to sound like a farce.

“So bring the dead to her.”

The idea ran like fire around the circle, as they talked amongst themselves, Jon’s panic rising once again. They had no conceivable understanding of what they were asking for, and he felt at a loss to have to point out to this group the many ways the entire thing could go tits up if they weren’t able to pull it off. The din of the discussion was a background of noise to his tumultuous thoughts, until Davos addressed him from where he stood beside him.

“Is that possible?”

Only the question of the century, Jon mused.

But he told them of Othor in Castle Black, recalling the hand he’d lopped off being stuffed in a jar, Mormont tasking Ser Alliser to take it to King’s Landing to show them this proof. It had deteriorated by the time he’d arrived, and oh, how bitter Ser Alliser was when he’d returned, taking their jeers in the capital with as much grace as he had everything else. Any remote chance at success to be had would require bagging a fully animated corpse from beyond the Wall, one that the Night King had risen himself, and the logistics of that terrified him.

The talk had quickly turned to how to convince Cersei to meet with them at all, and as Tyrion hatched his plan, Jon could only see the Night King’s face from his dreams, the way he’d taunted him as the demon had raised his arms. He heard the scurrying, sick noises of the dead children return. They hadn’t forgotten him simply because a pretty girl had paid him some notice. Daenerys questioned how they could possibly get Tyrion safely into King’s Landing to meet with his brother, and all eyes turned to Davos. Jon balked, hoping Davos would point out the obvious to them. He couldn’t afford to lose him. Davos offered his expertise and Tyrion looked worried at the prospect.

“But it will all be for nothing if we don’t have one of these dead men,” Daenerys noted.

Lord Varys looked to Jon. “Fair point. How do you propose to find one?”

 _Oh, for fuck’s sake._ When had he been suddenly tasked with this venture, Jon wondered? He looked across the map of Westeros with a sense of impending doom. It would be no easy undertaking by any means. They really had no idea what they were asking of him. It wasn’t as if they could merely make a walking dead man of their own. It would require tracking down the host.

And then Ser Jorah spoke up.

“Allow me to serve you,” he asked of his queen, after offering himself for the mission. Jon felt a hot spark in his gut, seeing Daenerys’s shocked face. He wasn’t about to stand by and let Ser Jorah make a martyr of himself. And then Jon realized something. This fight was always meant to come down between him and the Night King. It was why he was here. He made his decision.

“They won’t follow Ser Jorah,” Davos helpfully informed them. And then Jon spoke up.

“They won’t have to.”

He saw the expression on her face change instantly, a sudden vulnerability in Daenerys’s eyes that made him wish he’d known her in another life.

Davos instantly raised his objections, reminding him of his station, as if that hadn’t been all that consumed Jon’s thoughts since being crowned. But of all those present, he was the only one who knew what to expect, the only one who could have any chance of success. That much was plain. And if he couldn’t bring one back, then at least he’d have his shot at the Night King. Perhaps he could finish this war before it even began. It all felt hopelessly destined, as if his decision to come here had been in the stars all along, his fate lying in wait.

Daenerys raised her head to him, imperious as ever yet a nervous swallow giving her away. “I haven’t given you permission to leave.”

And there it was. Whatever game they’d been playing here, he’d been reminded of his purpose, the reason he’d been meant to lead his people in the first place.

“With respect, Your Grace, I don’t need your permission. I am a king.” The words felt familiar in his mouth, a strange sense of having said them to her before. Yet he still implored his case once again, a last effort to make her understand the risks he’d taken in coming here.

“Now I’m asking ye," he'd finished, "to trust in a stranger. Because it’s our best chance.”

She held his gaze, eyes shining, and for a moment Jon thought she might honestly be saddened to see him go, before she nodded once to give her approval. Not that he’d needed it, but he had no desire to leave her on a sour note. They could still help each other.

“Well then … how long do we think this will take?” Varys asked, raising the important questions while he sat on his arse, risking nothing.

“If we want to smuggle you in, best we go by smaller vessel,” Davos said to Tyrion. “We can take an unmarked ship to Duskendale in the cover of night and once we make port we’ll row the rest of the way. It’ll take longer, but we won’t be noticed, and that’s what I’m aimin’ for. Getting you into King’s Landing,” he tipped his head side to side figuring the odds. “About three days at most. With luck, and hopefully a strong sense of family loyalty, it shouldn’t take very long for you to convince your brother to talk to your sister, and we can fuck out of there in a matter of hours.”

Tyrion still appeared troubled, making Jon question whether the man believed he could even sway his brother at all. He imagined Sansa’s reaction if he came to her with such a plan. Jon squeezed his eyes shut tiredly at the reminder that he would have to write back to her.

“So at least a week then?” Daenerys said with some hope, and when Jon opened his eyes she had a spark of optimism alight in her face. She turned to Jon. “You’ll be here until they come back?” For the first time, he noticed the high pitch of uncertainty in her voice.

“Yes, of course. That’ll give us enough time to finish up the mining in the cave.” He pointed towards the high spot on the map where the Shivering Sea was carved. “I’ll begin seeing to the provisions for our journey north, while Ser Davos is gone.” When he turned back to Daenerys, she gave him a sad smile and he felt another pang of regret. “My ship. My men, Your Grace, we were not a large envoy. I would ask if you can supply me more men, in order to help us finish the work in time, and possibly take some extra hands with us on this mission. I don’t know how long we’ll be gone.”

“Of course,” she said instantly, her features softening. “Whatever you need.”

Tyrion sighed. “Well, I suppose I should get ready, as well. Perhaps spend a half hour taking a long deserved shit on dry land before I have to get back on a boat.” Glancing to Ser Jorah and Varys, Tyrion nodded towards them. “Thankfully, I’m quite practiced in being smuggled into places. A Lannister is valuable cargo, after all, as these gentlemen can attest.”

“Cargo or _noh_ , maybe you should go take that shit so I don’t have to hear about it later,” Ser Davos griped. “I’ll meet you in the harbor at dusk. And I wouldn’t dress too fancy; remember we don’t want anyone recognizin’ ye.” He locked eyes with Jon and jerked his head towards the way out, his expression not happy

“Your Grace, if you’re done with me, I’d like to confer with Ser Davos before he leaves.”

She stood up, her hands flitting nervously over the carved wood. “Will you join us for dinner this evening?”

“I have some matters to attend to before then, but if I can finish in time, you’ll see me there, Your Grace.” He smiled formally before he and Davos strode from the room, on the march to his chambers. They hadn’t even gone a dozen paces before Davos was grabbing him by the arm to slow him down.

“Jon,” he hissed. “What are you thinking? This is a half-cocked plan and you know it. You can’t keep risking your life. Your people need you.”

“Well, you’re going with me, so it’ll be your job to keep me alive,” he told his friend as he resumed his quickened steps down the corridor, Davos hustling to keep up. “Don’t get yourself arrested or killed while you’re in the capital, please. Get back here as soon as you can. I’ll have everything sorted by then. I need to let Sansa know where we’re going. I’ll send the raven before we set sail for Eastwatch.”

“She’s not going to like this.”

Jon stopped and faced him. “She doesn’t have to. And I’m not planning on telling her everything. So just get back here soon, alright?”

He didn’t look forward to lying, but he didn’t want her worrying. He’d simply give her a shortened version of their itinerary.

Jon had much to do, a renewed sense of duty engaging him, and he stalked away with his thoughts in a tumble. If nothing else, he would strive to see the queen at dinner tonight. He had only a handful of nights to spend any more time with her, after all.

* * *

She watched from her post deep in an alcove at the edge of a corridor.

The door had been closed for a while now, no traffic down this way at all to interrupt her patrol. The keep was silent as Arya stood tirelessly, her curiosity a powerful motivator to stay put.

It had been a complicated homecoming.

Seeing Sansa after so many years had brought up old memories in Arya with such swiftness, it had been something of a shock, as if they had been lying in wait to attack her like starlings the moment she had stepped foot in the crypts. For so long, Arya had thought of herself as merely a tool, a sharp blade come to bring justice in the night, and had worked diligently under Jaqen H’ghar’s instruction to clear her mind of her past. Her family had been a story to tell, like any other, depending on the face she might wear. Her emotions shouldn’t have mattered.

But here in her home, the place she grew up, she was swarmed by ghosts, and it took an extra effort on her part to keep herself under wraps at all times, to show the world nothing. To show her sister that she was watching her every move. The way Sansa had let the northern lords speak of Jon so dismissively was a concern for Arya, a bitter taste in her mouth when she’d confronted her on it. She remembered all too well how her sister had treated their half-brother as children. And yet, something had clearly changed, Arya unable to put her finger on it. Not yet, at any rate. Sansa seemed to suggest that she and Jon were a team, informing Arya every chance she got that she knew him better, that she had special insight. It was galling to hear such words drip from her sister’s lips. She couldn’t possibly be serious. Or think Arya that stupid to fall for such a fanciful take.

Then there was Sansa’s attachment to that liar, Littlefinger. What was going on with them, she wondered, her distrust in Sansa growing to see their association, regardless of her sister’s warnings against him. The man doted on her sister, making Arya’s stomach churn to see it. Arya had followed Littlefinger, too, discovering which of the servants acted for him as spies. She took careful note of their faces, even under the cover of shadow. They would answer for their disloyalty eventually. She intended to get into Littlefinger’s chambers at some point, as soon as a moment presented itself, but for now, she waited for Sansa, to discern just what game her sister was playing.

It shouldn’t have been a surprise to discover Sansa had taken mother and father’s room, but this wasn’t the right corridor, this was Jon’s door she watched, she’d learned as much from one of the young servants, Jon's steward, he'd said. She’d watched Sansa enter going on half an hour ago, watched with widening eyes as one of the guards came several minutes later and tapped lightly on the door, saw it open a short way as he slipped inside. And now she waited, trying to imagine just what was going on in Jon’s room, none of it good.

Her sister was different these days, she’d observed that much, and Arya struggled to piece together this older version from the girl she had known. What had informed this Sansa? Surely, her sister carried herself as the Lady of Winterfell with aplomb, having practiced for it all her life perhaps, an icy layer to her interactions that often reminded Arya of Cersei, that hateful bitch. But there were moments where her sister practically trembled, her words halting as she’d tried to describe a past event: a conversation with Jon, or a Bolton’s misdeed.

Of course, Sansa was a walk in the godswood compared to their little brother. Every attempt at a conversation with him had brought up the hairs on the back of Arya’s neck. But she knew she would continue to try. Her brother was a source of information now; she just had to learn how to access it properly. He’d known she was responsible for the end of House Frey, had told her bluntly the first time she'd come to his room, but seemed resigned to it, rattling off the announcement as she stood stunned, with about as much interest in it as a list of ingredients to a very tasteless meal. When she'd asked him to keep it between them, he’d shown no concern, telling her that their secrets were their own and it was up to them how they chose to share them. What secrets did Bran know about Sansa, she wondered? Of Jon, even? Why had he really left? She thought of Robb and her mother, the shock of that night at the Twins. The horror of seeing his body paraded around with his direwolf’s head. She didn’t want Jon in the south, her grief a sudden sharp pain in her bosom.

Suddenly, the door opened.

The guard came out, just a young lad really. His sandy blonde hair was mussed, but he quickly clamped his bell shaped helmet over his head, hiding it. He glanced nervously in her direction, and Arya instinctively pressed her back harder against the stone, knowing he couldn’t possibly see her at this angle, that she was hidden in shadow, but mindful anyway. He turned in the other direction and jogged down the corridor, his sword and a ring of keys jangling against his hip.

It took only a few minutes later for her sister to step out, closing the heavy door with no worry of who might be around. She bent to lock the door, and Arya wondered at that, too, why Sansa would need the key to their brother’s chambers. Sansa straightened and tucked on a glove, striding forward with her usual purpose, her expression blank, if not outright bored. She was heading towards her, and Arya hugged the stone, minding the fat candle that sat in its sconce as she turned to her side, disappearing into the alcove’s shelter while Sansa walked past.

She waited until she could hear Sansa’s footfalls leading down the steps before she acted, taking note of the empty corridor before she quickly made strides to the door, her pins already out as she inserted them into the lock and felt for its catch. After another minute, she heard its spring open and she pushed the door inward, disappearing inside before anyone else came along.

Arya closed the door behind her and scanned the room.

For some reason, her eye immediately went to his bed, but it was made up pristinely, not a wrinkle in place. A strange feeling sat in her stomach, as though bugs gnawed her from the inside, and she let out a small breath of relief to see it untouched.

She glanced from corner to corner, a powerful curiosity afoot as she took in her brother’s space. This had been Robb’s room once upon a time. That Jon chose it as his place to sleep bruised her heart again. They had both been chosen King in the North. A need sprung in Arya that she should see this brother return, that she could hold him in her arms once more. She gripped Needle’s hilt at her waist, tears in her eyes for a shocking second until she shook her head to rid herself of them, reminding herself she was no longer a silly girl. Of course Jon would return.

With soft steps, she walked around the chamber, her hands behind her to rest at the small of her back, while she tilted her head or craned her neck to look closer at some of his things. Oddly, she didn’t want to touch anything, as it felt disrespectful, and she was careful not to leave any disruption to his order of things so as to show no indication she’d ever been here. But she peered at his books, smelled his inkpot, took a look at his clothes inside of a wardrobe, and wondered what had brought Sansa here, why she had involved one of her guards. What plots did Sansa craft?

She smelled Jon here, she realized. It was a manly odor, the woodsy smoke from old fires mingled with his sweat, his presence like a shadow of him still walking around. He didn’t have a lot of things, she noticed. Not like Sansa’s room. But the things he did have spoke of a man’s taste, and Arya understood with a sense of finality that her brother hadn’t been a boy in some time, that he’d gone to battle for their home, had tried to save Rickon, Sansa had said. What would Jon be like when she saw him again? Another conundrum? She wanted at least one of her siblings to be familiar to her, an assurance that they were still the same people. But was that possible? She imagined that even she posed something of a mystery to her sister. Arya had learned a long time ago that it was better to keep others from knowing too much about one’s self, and her faces had taught her that deceit was an easy game, that people would always show themselves if one knew where to look.

Arya finished her inspection, a sudden sadness weighing down her shoulders. She had no idea what Sansa was up to, but she still had Littlefinger to follow. He was definitely stirring something up with the other lords, as she’d witnessed in several hallway meetings. That Sansa had brought the man here seemed evident and remained suspect. She couldn’t imagine that Jon would have been happy about it.

She came back to the door and took one final look at the room, as it sat silent, waiting for its owner the way Ghost sat waiting for his master. The thought of his direwolf made Arya smile. She would go and find Ghost and tell him of his sister’s pack in the woods. She wished he could talk, could share stories of her brother, but she knew in good time she would be reunited with Jon and he could tell her himself.

Arya opened the door, peeking left and to the right of her before stepping outside. She locked the door and then quickly skulked off, her thoughts turning to the best ways to get into the guest house undetected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a lot to say about the Wight Hunt in the many r/freefolk threads at reddit, but I'll spare you from them and just say that during that time I read many many ... many alternative takes on what they _should_ have done, and all of the reddit ideas were even dumber than what we got, as people failed to understand the very clear rules laid out in this world on the matter of reanimated corpses.
> 
> Also, I love to have Jon reference the battle with the wildlings at Castle Black because I freaking love that episode. My favorite moment - [drop the scythe boys!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C1hFNqqi8j0)


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to aflashofgreen for her reasoned and helpful notes. 
> 
> Also, this chapter officially ends our time on Dragonstone, and I will be jumping over two episodes in terms of time, when I next update. While the drama in Winterfell continues at a pace, Jon will be in a very different setting and mental frame when we return. Hence, I might take a bit longer with the next update, as there is a lot I want to set the stage for and I want to make sure I give the chapter enough time to capture what's in my head.
> 
> Appreciate your thoughts. I hope you can all keep an open mind with this one.

**.xxv**

She walked down the steps with the sound of the surf invading her, the hiss of water rushing forward on the sand like the blood sizzling in her veins. It was a part of her now. To think that at one time her head was constantly filled with the wind rustling the great grasses of the Dothraki sea. It felt an eternity ago.

Daenerys hadn’t been able to sleep for the last several nights and she walked in a daze. Troubling thoughts seized her mind and wouldn’t let go, as conversations played over again in her head, vivid scenes imagining the desolate landscape beyond the Wall, and what Jon Snow might have to face once he arrived. It was a dangerous place, he’d said, and he was going there to do a dangerous thing.

She’d been taken aback when he announced his decision to take lead on the mission. Almost instantly, she felt a keen sense of loss. Why would he offer himself? She’d only just determined that he was a person worth knowing, that she liked being in his company, and now he was running off, making it plain to all in the room that he had no interest in her opinion of it. It frustrated her to the point of anger after she’d had some time to think on it in her chambers. Another man playing the hero. And what if the price was death? She didn’t want to think of it but the possibility continued to plague her while they waited for Ser Davos and her Hand to return.

As she arrived at the mouth of the cave, she saw some of the king’s guard and a few of her Dothraki carrying more long wooden crates, leaving them where a pile was clustered at the entrance. A large dinghy had been hoisted up from the shore waiting to be filled and disappointment shot through her to see it.

She spoke to one of her bloodriders to ask if Jon Snow was still inside. Ogo pointed away from the cave, towards the water, and she felt her stomach plummet. Had he already boarded his ship?

Daenerys glanced to where Ogo directed, and saw Jon Snow coming out of the ocean, taking wide steps with arms swinging as he waded back to shore. He dragged himself onto the beach, his white shirt and dark woolen breeches soaked through and clinging to him, just as they’d done in her dream, and the water trailed from his clothes, his black hair hanging down, long waves of it slicked to the side of his face. Daenerys took a hard swallow. He was a sight.

Jon Snow paused in mid-stride as he noticed her, surprise in his face only a moment before he smiled warmly, his trudging steps through the sand moving faster as he came towards her.

“Your Grace! I wasn’t expecting you today. Would you like me to escort you on your walk?” It had become a regular occurrence, their sojourns across the bluffs, as she’d wanted to take advantage of the afternoons they had left.

“I was hoping you would be up for it. But perhaps not. It seems you made time for your swim after all.”

He grinned, pulling the front of his loose shirt into a long tail and twisting it to wring the water free, making a puddle at their feet. The heaviness of the saturated cloth molded it to his torso like a paste, turning the shirt practically transparent, and Daenerys detected what appeared to be a bluish bruising underneath its wet cling. She glanced up as soon as she realized she was staring at him, but he was busy pulling his hair back away from his face, a thread of leather in his mouth as he twisted all of it atop his head. He knotted it with the tie around his bun, rivulets of water running from his hair down his temple and along his jaw.

“I’ll be fine, Your Grace. Just let me get my boots.”

“Won’t you be cold? It’s so blustery at the top of the cliffs.”

“You forget,” he said with a sly smile. “I’m from the North. And winter has come. I think I can handle a little wind.”

“All right then.”

She watched him enter the cave and disappear into the black hole of its mouth, but he returned a few minutes later with his boots on, while he pulled his padded grey gambeson over his wet clothes. When he came to where she stood, he held out his arm, ever the gentleman. “Lead the way, Your Grace.”

They walked along the beach for a bit, Daenerys wrapping both of her arms around the one he offered her, and as the ground rose upwards, a steady incline that traveled up to where the land plateaued above, she latched onto him to pull her forward, the worn groove in the dirt their only path. Once they reached the grassy fields, she turned them towards the eastern side of the fortress, where her children liked to sleep during the midday.

“So, you’re almost done then? You have enough of the dragonglass?” she asked, loosening her hold on him as the ground flattened.

“Aye, we’ve loaded a fair amount on my ship already. The extra men you provided were a great help. We’ll be finishing up in the main chamber by tonight. I want to make sure my men clear out all of our equipment and remove the last traces of our presence.”

“And when do you plan to leave?” She was afraid to hear the answer – it would be too soon, she knew that much – but she also wanted to prepare for it.

“If Ser Davos and Lord Tyrion make it back by this evening, we’ll shove off in the morning. It’s a long voyage, and I want us to be able to get you what you need for Cersei to stand down as quick as I can, before you lose any more soldiers to this war.”

“And once you get there,” she wondered. “Are you going to have to … will it be far? To find one of these … what did you call them?”

“Wights,” he replied. “There are many names for them in the old texts, but that one seems to differentiate the aimless, insensible bodies of the host from the Others, like the cave pictures I showed you left by the Children. The White Walkers have more purpose, not quite dead, even if their appearance seems to suggest something not of this world, but they move like us, possess an ability to assess a situation and react to it.”

“You’ve studied them, then? Where does one find such information?”

“I found some very old books at Winterfell that spoke of them, briefly. My friend Sam is at the Citadel now looking through their extensive library. Some maesters in the North were also able to find mentions in the old scrolls of the past. But much of it is simply folklore. The freefolk had many names for them, too.”

“The freefolk?” Her dragons were in their sights as she and Jon Snow ambled their way across the lush green carpet they slept on.

“The wildlings,” he clarified. “They prefer to be called the freefolk.”

Daenerys thought of the slaves she had freed and understood the need for such a moniker. “You respect them. I can hear it when you tell your stories. And they sound as if they admire you,” she noted, glancing up to see there were still droplets of water trailing down the side of his neck. For a second, she wondered what those drops might taste like.

“I think they recognize the value of having someone who can speak for them,” he said in that thoughtful way of his, as if no words could pass his lips until he’d given them the proper weight. “In a discourse where they’ve traditionally been given no voice and, consequently, no power,” he finished. “As you yourself have done for those marginalized in Meereen.”

“You said you sent some men to guard Eastwatch,” she recalled. “Will there be enough of them to help you?” She wanted him protected, she realized.

“It will be a small crew. But that’s ideal for where we’re going. We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves.”

She thought of her dreams again, a barren tundra covered in ice. It made her think of the Red Waste, the long, arduous journey she and her khalasar had made to cross it. And when they’d reached the end of it, to a place they’d thought would be a haven, it had been only filled with treachery and death.

“And where do you think you’ll start your hunt?” She wanted to fill in the picture in her head with as much detail as he would give her.

He looked at her strangely for a moment, as their steps brought them to where Viserion lounged. “I suppose it is a hunt,” he said. “But once we reach the Bay of Seals, we’ll hopefully be able to spot some activity across the landscape. Just outside of the castle at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, the terrain is dominated by the Haunted Forest. It makes for easier tracking, unlike the Frostfangs, where the crevasses of Skirling Pass can send a man to his death with one wrong step.”

“It sounds like the land stretches on forever,” she said. “And how close do you think the dead are to the Wall?” Daenerys felt a strange spell hang over them as they spoke of such a mystical place. A fortnight ago, she’d thought this man full of nonsense. Now she was eager to learn as much as she could. He knew this land, it was a part of him, she could tell.

“The last time I’d fought them was at Hardhome,” he stated. “The Night King most likely kept the van traveling the coast once they left the Fist, along the Antler River, perhaps. They’ve passed Storrold’s Point and through most of the forest if Bran has seen them nearby. We’ll continue to follow the coast as well, send scouts ahead of us to keep a watch for them.”

“Isn’t there any other way to find a single wight?” she asked with some hope. “Why put yourself at such risk of running into the horde itself?”

Viserion raised its head and blinked at them both as they came closer, listening in as Jon stopped to face her.

“We need to isolate one. The Night King has congregated them into a single unit, we know that, and it’s much easier to track a massive moving army than a rogue dead man.” He glanced over to Viserion, her child staring at Jon with sleepy eyes. “If I could scour the land from the air above, wouldn’t that be a glorious way to find them,” he said with a smile. “Like a needle in the hay. I imagine you are able to see some things that the rest of us aren’t even aware of.”

“It is amazing,” she agreed, although she frowned. She wanted to help him, but she was constrained by her promises to her people, to her council. If only she could take him there. As soon as she thought it, Daenerys shot her head up to look into his face, to see in Jon Snow a determination that matched her own. She was surprised by how much emotion warred within her at the prospect of losing him. “You must tell me if you fall into trouble,” she suddenly offered, hearing herself impassioned as her gloved fingers circled his wrist. “Find a way to send word. I can find you.”

Jon Snow stopped dead in his tracks and faced her again, his expression molded in shock. “Your Grace, I would never put you in such danger. It is a cold, brutal place. Too many things can go wrong. We’ll be all right. Besides,” he noted with a sweeping glance to the fortress tower, “you’re in the middle of a war. If Cersei agrees to meet, well then, you’ll have much to do to prepare with your Hand while you wait for this king in the North to give you something tangible to offer to the table.”

“You do realize I have gone into battle,” she said with some bite. She shook her head to him as the wind whipped up around them. “I’m no damsel who needs to be protected, Jon Snow. I will fight for those who need saving.”

“Aye, I’m beginning to understand that,” he answered, a rueful smile on his face that crinkled his eyes. “Apologies, Your Grace. You’re right, I was forgetting for a moment just who I was speaking with.”

They began to walk again, traipsing between Rhaegal’s and Drogon’s snoring snouts. Jon Snow was becoming quite comfortable around them, she noticed. He didn’t even flinch when Drogon opened his eyes to watch them.

“You mentioned the freezing temperatures,” she resumed. “I wondered if you might allow me to give you a gift, Jon Snow.” Ornela and Zhiqi had insisted once she’d told them where the king was going.

He took a moment to ponder her offer, a tentative hope in the glistening of his eyes.

“And what might that be?” he asked cautiously.

“My handmaidens wanted you to be warm where you’re going,” she said. “They don’t understand snow but they know what it means to be cold. I had them make a coat for you.”

His eyebrows flew up towards his hairline. “Oh. I … well, I wasn’t expecting that.”

She smiled. “What were you expecting?”

He gave a surprised chuckle and looked to the ground, his lovely skin turning a shade of pink. “I don’t know, exactly.”

They stood together with a slight awkwardness hovering between them, an inclination in Daenerys to tease him, yet feeling too serious in the moment. Instead, worry grew in her heart.

“I still have you for another dinner,” she said with a queenly insistence, raising her chin. “I will make sure they have it ready for you by then, before you retire for the evening, so you may pack it away with your things.”

“You are most kind, Your Grace. I will thank them both when I see them.”

Daenerys began to move forward again, leaving her children to their slumber, and Jon Snow walked with her as she tucked her gloved hands into the fur-lined sleeves of her dress to keep them warm. She swallowed thickly, anticipating already how dreary things would be once he’d gone. “I think Ornela and Zhiqi will miss you. They’ve grown attached quite quickly.”

It was quiet for a beat. “I have certainly enjoyed their company.”

She suddenly noticed they were nearing the fortress. “I should let you get back to your cave,” she said. “Or perhaps you’ll take another dive in the water before you come up,” she teased softly.

“No, I’m fine now.” He grinned shyly at her before turning serious again. “It’s a nice way to … to clear one’s head. Peaceful.”

“And what do you usually do when you’re not by an ocean, Jon Snow,” she asked, curious. “How do you clear your head then?”

He looked solemn at the question, but instead of answering glanced behind them towards the Blackwater. “I suppose I should head back while there’s still some light out,” he said gravely.

“Of course. Thank you for accompanying me.” She had wanted to spend some time with Ser Jorah before he left her again, and would go to visit him next. Her council grew smaller every day, as her roster of dinner guests continued to dwindle, and Daenerys felt that rush of loneliness again.

“Till this evening,” she said, before turning to walk away.

* * *

“It’s hot. Really hot.”

Gendry gasped as he gazed up at the sun beating down on them, his back into the rowing as their little boat was propelled out to sea.

“We’ve only been out here a few hours,” Davos noted. “You wanted to come. We’ve got a ways to go, son.”

“Well how come I ended up doing the rowing?”

“You’ve had plenty of practice,” he quipped, not in the mood for the lad’s bitching. “We’ll take turns. Just sing a song or something.”

“No, please don’t do that.” Tyrion sat at one end of the boat, arms crossed, as he looked out across the water like a man who’d been sentenced to hang. He’d been glum since they’d left, and Davos wondered again if this had all been for nothing, if Tyrion had failed to convince his brother.

“I don’t know any songs, anyway.” Gendry nodded to the pouch of water by Davos’s lap. “Let me have a drink.”

Davos threw it to the boy, who paused from his rowing to get some refreshment, and as the boat idled in the water Davos grabbed the oars to pick up the slack during the respite. He needed to get some of his frustration out, and sitting on his arse drumming his one set of fingers upon his knee for the next day until they could reach Duskendale was likely to drive him barmy. Particularly if Tyrion was going to brood the entire time.

“You should have kept that fermented crab instead of throwing it over the side,” Tyrion remarked in droll fashion, his expression still miserable. “At least he’d have some incentive to get us there faster.” Then a grimace spread across his face as he looked to Davos. “Why are we bringing this boy again?”

“Considering he saved your arse back on the beach, I’d say his worth speaks for itself. We could certainly do with some help for your mission,” Davos replied tightly, still angry with Tyrion for suggesting the damn plan in the first place. It was like dangling a trout before a bear, when it came to Jon and running towards danger. He’d done what he could to talk sense into their young king, but Jon was set on it. The reprieve from that darkness in him which Davos couldn’t reach had been too brief while they’d been stationed on the island. Alas, the young maidens and the comely dragon queen had not been enough to make Jon forget his duty the moment it came calling. It was an ongoing job, trying to reason with Jon into considering his own needs and safety once in a while.

“It’s hardly _my_ mission anymore. I’ve done my part. The rest is up to Jon Snow.”

“Yes, and thanks so much for _that_ ,” he grumbled with a bitter emphasis through the grit of his teeth as he dragged the oars forward.

“Look, give it here,” Gendry offered, tossing the waterskin back before holding out a hand. “I’ll take the oars. Don’t want you to wear yourself out, old man.”

“How do you think we got here?” Davos muttered. He glanced over Gendry’s shoulder to see Tyrion still moping. “And I most definitely did not have his Lord Hand to the queen offering to take a turn,” he added loudly.

“Are you angry with me, Ser Davos?” Tyrion cast his gaze over the water, attempting to ignore the rest of them.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

Tyrion finally sat up in the boat and turned to him. “I’m sorry about your son, alright? I didn’t know. It was war.”

Davos was so surprised by the reply he forgot his anger for a moment. An apology was the last thing he’d expected out of Tyrion Lannister.

“I understand that, but it doesn’t make my son any less dead. And while I thank you for the words, I wasn’t blaming you. The memories are thick here in the south, is all. On Dragonstone. On the Blackwater. I miss him.” The bay had become a burial site for Davos but was there even anything left of his child’s bones down on the ocean floor?

“The memories are thick for me, too,” Tyrion replied softly, staring out at the water again.

“Well, my memories of Dragonstone aren’t too great, either,” Gendry complained. “You sure that red witch won’t be there?”

“We don’t need to talk about her,” Davos said hurriedly, not wanting to summon Shireen into his thoughts.

“So then what are you peeved about?” Tyrion continued, ignoring Gendry’s contribution to the conversation.

Davos was too annoyed to want to talk about Jon with Tyrion, however. He’d not been impressed with the Lannister so far. The man had dragged Jon here and now he was sending him beyond the Wall, as if it were nothing but a mere two day boat ride and Jon didn’t have more important things to do.

“I think you take advantage of the king in the North and his sense of honour,” Davos said.

But Tyrion protested. “The man has lived beyond the Wall and survived. He knows the place better than any of us. I would imagine he knows what he’s doing.”

“Aye, he does.” He saw Jon rise from the table in his mind, remembered the haunted look on his face. _I did what I thought was right. And I got murdered for it._ “That’s what I worry about,” he said quietly.

* * *

Jon came to her, not a stitch on, the blue and black of his wounds the only thing that marred his beautiful body. She desired to look upon him, to see all of him, every part of her brother, no matter how dark some of those parts were.

“Do you want me?” he asked her in a roughened voice, his eyes flared hot with his need of her.

“More than anything,” she said, a second before he was on her, and she groaned aloud at the contact, his mouth on her neck, his hands sliding to her back, squeezing her tighter. Then he lowered his head so he could suckle her breast, nurse on a nipple.

“Yes, Gods! I missed this.” Her moans increased, a song she burned through as he continued to move lower, until he was on his knees before her, spreading her wide.

“Jon, please. I need you,” she begged, a sob in her throat, and then his mouth was on her, where she was most desperate for him. He gripped her legs as he held them open, with a growl in his throat as he lapped at her, devoured her. She was shaking so hard, wanting to feel his tongue coax her until she was gushing in his mouth.

He pulled away but for a moment. “I’m going to fuck you,” he told her in his deep burr, his gaze still smoldering, “but not until I make you come so hard you scream for it.” Then his thumb was pressing down on her little bud, his lips chasing it, and he sucked her with such longing that Sansa wanted to weep. Perhaps she _would_ scream for him. She wanted to.

“I want to feel you, all of you,” she gasped, and her pleas were thick with emotion, yet she felt a great knot loosening in her, her nerves so tight lately – so many people to worry about, and Bran continuing to speak to her so coldly while her sister was just odd and, gods, Littlefinger barely left her side these days – but now Jon’s mouth was on her and he would make it all good.

She was lost to the pleasure, that glowing warmth rising from the epicenter of her sex, under Jon’s masterful command, and as she felt her climax gain in power, Sansa moved with him, thrusting into his face as her fingers curled in his hair to grip those locks. But instead of lustrous, raven curls, it was a dull, coarse sandy blond thatch under her caresses. Groping fingers were reaching for her breast, knocking into the metal ring that sat upon her chest.

“Hands,” she called out. It didn’t move fast enough. “I said hands!”

The hand slunk back down, and Sansa exhaled a mighty sigh, her fantasy ruined. She tried to summon Jon back into her thoughts but it was a wisp of a memory, a mere picture in her head of her brother laid out on her bed watching her with black eyes, his cock ready for her as he let her do what she would.

Sansa clutched the ends of her skirt and petticoats in her fists, where they rested on the edge of Jon’s desk, and resumed her mild thrusts towards the mouth that sought to pleasure his lady. She just needed to come. She’d been so close. Sansa thought of the many nights when she’d arrived into his chambers to find Jon sitting at this very desk, the only sound in the room the scratch of his pen. That first kiss she’d given him while he was awake and coherent just a few steps away from where she sat now. His lips … how soft and pliant her brother’s lips were. How big his hands, the way they covered her breasts, such long elegant fingers. The places he put them …

Jon eased into her mind again, and the feeble licking at her twat became something else.

“A little higher,” she said aloud, in an attempt to instruct the lad. He was no Jon, but she certainly couldn’t fault him his willingness to please.

“Yes, perfect. Right there. Don’t stop.”

The direction brought its own pleasures. She told him what to do, and he listened, doing what she asked. Such a blissful concept. Her thighs were being gripped tightly and she eased them a little wider, letting him burrow into her, until there it was, that wave reaching its apex and then crashing down on her head. Sansa opened her mouth from the ensuing pleasure but only the barest sound came out of her, a squeak in the back of her throat. Her body shuddered, but it was a momentary eclipse before her thoughts were returning to the intrigues of the castle, the plots and whispers thick as Jon’s absence opened the door to dissension. She would spend more time with the individual lords where she could, knowing that it was easier to get their loyalty with flattery and praise in an intimate setting.

When he was done, she stood up in a swift motion and dropped the skirt of her dress, smoothing it out so that her petticoat sat properly. Gareth stood as well, his features hung with a beseeching need of her while his breeches strained against his obvious desire, now at full attention. She would leave him aching this time. She couldn’t have him expecting anything of her, and would toss him off only when she felt the need for it.

“I’m sorry, Lady Sansa, I got carried away,” he begged of her.

“I’ll allow it this time, Gareth, but remember, you need to abide my boundaries.” She smiled fondly at him. “I like our arrangement. I wouldn’t want anything to disrupt what we have. I hope you agree that it is mutually beneficial the way it is.”

The lad gaped at her as if the sun’s rays were shining out of the back of her head. “Lady Sansa, you’re so _beautiful_ ,” he groaned. He reached over to kiss her but she stopped him with a hand to his chest.

“Gareth, your face. Go and wash up first.” She tipped her head towards the basin and jug on Jon’s dresser. “I can’t have you going outside like that. And be thorough.”

He hustled over to the other side of the room while Sansa straightened Jon’s parchments and inkpot, putting his desk back to rights. She liked to come in here to get away from everyone for a few moments out of her day. It helped to center her, this little pocket of tranquility. She went to sit down in the chair while she waited for Gareth to finish, and when he came back over to her – that shyness always present in his manner – she smiled wide.

“And so what do you have for me today?” she asked, getting straight to the real matter of their meeting.

“He was talking to one of the girls from the kitchens,” Gareth told her. “I asked around. I think it was Lira, my lady. It was hard to see everything from where I was hiding, but it looked like her.”

“I hope you were careful with whomever you spoke to,” she cautioned. “Don’t ask too many questions at one time. It breeds suspicion. Lord Baelish will hear of it.” She looked down to her hands folded over on her brother’s desk. “And my sister?”

“Lady Arya followed him for several hours yesterday. I saw her near his chambers but didn’t stay long. She’s very practiced, it would seem, in slipping about the castle undetected. I worry she might discover me.”

“I see,” she said, her mind racing. What was afoot? “And that was all?”

“She goes to Lord Brandon’s chambers often. I think they talk for long periods. Sometimes she goes and speaks to him in the godswood.”

“And what of Lord Glover? Has he sought out Lord Baelish again?”

“Yes, Lady Sansa. Both he and Lord Royce spoke with Lord Baelish for several minutes in the courtyard. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, though. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t trouble yourself about it, Gareth, I have a pretty good idea on what was discussed.” She stood up and came around the desk, her focus solely on the lad. He pressed the heel of his hand to his breeches, a look of discomfort steady in his face as he attempted to calm himself. When she stood before him, she put both hands to either side of his head, her thumb swiping a cheek. He was shorter than her and he gazed up at her with complete devotion in his eyes.

“Gareth, you are my personal guard, and you’re the only one I trust. I know you won’t let me down.”

“I’ll do whatever you ask of me, Lady Sansa. I’ll protect you, I swear it. No one will ever hurt you again.”

“Yes, I need you to protect me, from any lords who are conspiring against me, against our king.” She knew men needed to hear that. “Continue to watch Lord Baelish for me, but don’t get too close. I’ll find out what my sister is up to. You’ve been so terribly helpful to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” She leaned down and pressed her mouth to his and the lad struggled not to throw himself into her arms, small whines escaping his mouth as she slipped just a bit of tongue to his lips.

When she backed away, she let go of him, and Gareth caught himself before toppling over in his zeal to cling to her. His eyes were big as moons as he gave her that hopeful look again.

“Lady Sansa, could we …? I mean, forgive me, I know I have no place to ask. But it was so … you were so … it was amazing. I’ve never felt such –”

“Perhaps next time, Gareth,” she said, cutting him off cleanly. “I have many appointments today and there’s no time for it now.” She liked to watch his expressions as she stroked him, her utter command of his pleasure a proper thrill, but she knew it was best to serve such rewards in small parcels if she wanted to keep his discretion.

The misery spread across his face, yet he resigned himself to it with a curt nod of his head. “Of course, Lady Sansa. I understand. May I … may I take my leave now?” He was positively squirming.

She swiped a hand across his forehead, brushing his hair back tenderly. “You may. We’ll meet here at the same hour in three days time, Gareth. Keep me appraised if anything important should come up before then.”

He reached up to kiss her again and this time she allowed it, briefly, before stepping away. She reached behind her to pick up her gloves and began to put them on, a signal that the tryst was officially at its end.

Gareth stood there for another second, still staring at her in longing. “You’re so beautiful, my lady,” he repeated, and Sansa could see his sincerity as plain in his face as the rest of his features. It was obvious he was in love with her, and that was something Sansa could use. She did have some fondness for him, these meetings often the only pleasure in her week.

“Thank you,” she said graciously. “Now, you go and tend to your needs, and don’t forget what I said. Our little secret stays within the confines of this room. You must be absolutely rigid in your duties once we step out that door. Not so much as a smile in my direction, Gareth. That's very important.”

“I understand, Lady Sansa.” He bowed to her and then turned for the door, adjusting himself between his legs once more before leaving.

Sansa spun around Jon’s room, making sure everything was in order, as she began to slide on her other glove. It suddenly felt a bit stifling with Gareth gone, Jon’s absence having taken all the air out of the room as her longing for him renewed with an ache in her chest. She glanced at the bed, seeing an image of her and Jon entwined, with their heads at either end of each other and her lavishing attention on the sturdy column of his desire. What would happen once he returned now that Arya and Bran were back? Just as she’d instructed her guard, how would she hold herself still as she stood among her siblings, her brother and sister watching her as every nerve in her body screeched an insistence to hold Jon in her arms, to put her mouth on his until she struck that need in him and watched it pour forth? She wouldn’t be able to hide it, if Jon so much as touched her, and a deep pain sprang in her heart. Perhaps Jon had been right. The longer he was gone, the more she felt sure in herself. How would she even feel when she saw him again? Jon needed her protection, she understood that much, as the lords’ disgruntled voices rose in numbers, and she would be loath to do anything that could damage his reputation further. If she could never lay her hands on Jon again, would it be enough to simply help him? To stand by his side and protect their people? She didn’t know anymore.

As she left his room, turning to lock the door, her thoughts returned to Arya. Her sister was a problem she hadn’t expected, and it depressed her that she would come to distrust her family after all this time they’d been separated. Then again, she hadn’t trusted Jon fully enough before the battle to be honest with him, either. At least Bran was getting easier, she noted. Her trysts with Gareth gave her a way to cloud her mind when she was in Bran’s presence. Let him see she dallied with a guard, she doubted he’d have much to say about it if he even deigned to look into her actions. Bran was occupied with bigger things. Her brother seemed to want for nothing, and cared little what others did in their private lives. As long as she could keep her thoughts away from Jon, then she felt secure. Bran had sat at the head table with her the night before and they’d talked at length about the Night King’s likely location. He’d seen as much beyond the Wall as Jon had, and when she could get him to share an experience, a bit of his history, she felt like she had a glimpse of the old Bran again, her little brother still somewhere inside this cold manifestation. At least enough for her to feel a connection to him, she’d decided. That Arya spent time with him in his chambers made her curious, though. Would Bran tell her what they talked of if she asked? Would it be wise to let him know she was even aware? It was a constant concern for Sansa, as she navigated the delicate standing with her siblings.

Littlefinger was currently the simplest of the lot. She knew what he wanted. And what he was willing to do to get it. His work to undermine Jon with the Northern lords would have to stop, whatever he was up to. And what might throw Littlefinger from his intentions?

Sansa’s thoughts began to seize on a plan.

* * *

“So, I suppose if all goes according to plan, the next time we meet will be in King’s Landing.”

Daenerys had her arm curled around his as they made their way down the long steps of Dragonstone again, the night as clear and cool as any other, and Jon marveled again at how different it felt here to see the sun, watch the waves roll in every day with a steady commitment, while half a world away his country was in the grip of winter. What would this view look like when the long night reached it with its frosted fingers?

“I suppose so. Here’s to hoping Tyrion knows his sister as well as he claims. That we can reason with her.”

He thought of all the stories Sansa had told him about the capital, the place where their father was killed. Jon had written to her before dinner – the raven had been sent by now – and he mentioned King’s Landing as the final destination without going into too much detail about the mission. He didn’t want to worry her needlessly, but also, he was acutely aware that he was going back on his word not to meet with Cersei Lannister. He knew Sansa feared what the queen would do. However, if Cersei agreed to the armistice, the terms would dictate a different setting altogether.

“Sometimes, we know our family better than they know themselves,” Daenerys said quietly. “My brother had a dangerous fantasy of what awaited him in Westeros, imagining the small folk whispered his name before they went to sleep at night, hopeful for his return. I couldn’t make him appreciate what we had. He wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than his proper place on the Iron Throne.”

Jon turned to watch her, Daenerys’s gaze on the ground as they strolled forward. “What happened to him?” he asked, sensing that the queen was in a mood to talk about it.

She was silent for a beat. “He died of his hubris.”

She offered nothing more and so Jon let it sit with them, his thoughts pivoting to Robb, and Sansa’s insistence that it was his stupid mistakes that got him killed. He had loved Robb fiercely, as two peas in a pod they often were, even on those occasions where jealousy sat in his heart, but he understood that his brother had chosen love over duty, that the Freys had taken it as an insult and had sought Tywin Lannister’s backing to carry out their massacre. Yet it was a facile thing to declare from the outside that it was stupidity to follow one’s heart. To love was to be human, after all, and why else were humans here if not to love? He had broken his vows to be with Ygritte, had ultimately chosen the Night’s Watch over her. Would his life have ended when it did had he stayed with her? Ygritte had taught him so much, had helped him become the man he was today, simply by knowing her and loving her. He would never consider that a failing, a mistake, no matter where it had led.

“You must look forward to your homecoming,” Daenerys said. “To be able to see your brother and sisters once again.”

He was surprised at the question. His mind had been on so many other things that the news of Arya and Bran being alive had sat simmering under his rational thoughts and planning. To imagine being in Winterfell with all of his family, with the truth of what had been going on in their absence skulking in the shadows, released a complicated network of emotions within him that he hadn't the luxury to dwell on.

“I do, but it might be a while before that happens.” He thought of the last time he saw them both. “I can only see them as they were. However, I know that the reality is they’ll be much older when I finally lay my eyes on them. It provokes both excitement and fear, I suppose.”

“Why would you fear it?” she asked baldly.

Jon thought of Sansa, saw the damage of her experiences in her eyes, in her need of him. Would he be faced with that haunted pain in Arya’s and Bran’s eyes, too?

“I don’t know what they had to go through to survive,” he answered. “I worry that it was brutal, that they might have been changed irreparably.” He knew it was true for his own survival. “And we still have more to go through. Above all, I want my family to be safe, always.”

Daenerys flashed her violet eyes up at him, and there was a yearning in them that made his breath catch in his throat. “Your family is important to you. I wish I’d known my family. All I had was my brother, and he was rarely a person I could turn to when I had a need to be consoled.”

He thought of the Mad King and what he’d done to Jon’s uncle and grandfather, how perhaps Daenerys had been spared knowing the man. She was nothing like him, if all stories were to be believed.

“That must have been a very lonely childhood then.”

They stopped at one of the brazier towers as she looked down below to the shore where the waves were sliding in for their long reach. “I remember the day Viserys had to sell my mother’s crown so that we could eat. It was as if all of his joy had been sold with it, leaving only his bitterness behind.”

She suddenly gazed up at him, her sadness still hanging there. “It’s a difficult thing for a girl to grow up without a mother. I had no … model, I suppose, on how I should act as a young woman. My brother could hardly be expected to guide me. I could only rely on myself.” She narrowed her eyes. “You say you’re a bastard, but it sounds as if you were accepted and loved by the Starks. And your father’s wife? She was alright with you being there?” Then her mouth dropped open into a small moue of surprise. “Oh, perhaps that is too personal of a question. Forgive me, if I’m being too forward.”

“No, it’s all right, Your Grace.” He thought of life with Catelyn and the impossibility of summing up that relationship into a single, pithy observation. “I – I never knew my mother, either. I don’t know anything about her at all. My being there, it put Lady Stark in a difficult situation. I was an embarrassment for her, I expect. One could say that we didn’t really have much of a relationship, and my place there was made plain. But there were always people about who would take care of me.”

“That’s good then, that you had that.” A faraway look came into her eyes. “Sometimes we have to find our own families, or create them ourselves. As you did with the brotherhood you joined, perhaps.”

He nodded. “Aye. And you, your Grace? Did the Dothraki become your new family?”

She frowned at the suggestion. “In some ways, I suppose. But they are my people now. I am their mother, but I must be a mother to all of Westeros. I have to love all my children, equally.”

Jon thought it an interesting way to position her rule, that there was an inherent benevolence in the metaphor, while also simplifying what it meant to govern. It reminded him of his own father’s insistence that as lord of Winterfell, he was as responsible for all those who lived in the North as he was for his own children. Jon had taken on that mantle himself, as a king, and understood that drive, to protect his people as a parent would their child. But his bannermen were not pliant children, they were grown men, and their single-mindedness and insistence on looking no further than their own nose put Jon back at the Night’s Watch, trying to get his brothers to see past their grievances with the wildlings. He didn’t feel like a parent. He felt alone.

“Ornela told me a story about you,” he said, feeling suddenly too raw to talk about family. The realities of his mission gave way to the possibility that he might not see them again. He wasn’t prepared to think ahead to their future, he could only think about right now.

“And which story was that?” she asked, an eyebrow poised high in her forehead.

“About the night you burned the khals.” Ornela had come to sleep in his bed again during the night, and in some ways, Jon was glad he was leaving. It was not sustainable that he should be able to refuse her advances every time. He wasn’t made of stone. But she had told him the story that very morning, and it had sat in the back of Jon’s mind through the course of the day.

He leaned against the wall beside him, where he was shielded from the wild winds coming off the water. “She said she watched the place where they gathered being consumed with flames, and then she watched with her own eyes as you came to the door, amidst the fire, as naked as your name day, but the flames leaving you unscathed. Khaleesi the Unburnt, she called you.” He recalled the queen’s many titles from that first greet and had assumed it to be another metaphor, not imagining it was meant to be taken so literally.

“Yes, fire does not burn a dragon,” she said.

He grinned at the designation. “You think yourself a dragon? Yet you wear no scales for protection as your children do.”

“I don’t need them,” she said plainly. “Watch.”

And then Jon gawked as she suddenly stuck her bare hand in between the grating of the brazier, right into the flames. He reacted without thought.

“Your Grace, wait!” He reached for her arm to draw her back, remembering the pain of fire when he’d held the lantern in his hand before throwing it at the wight who’d attacked Mormont.

But she held it out to him. Her skin wasn’t charred, not a mark on her. “See?”

He ripped off his right glove and grabbed hold of her hand, comparing her pale skin to the scarred flesh in the palm of his own. It wasn’t even hot to the touch, only the churning warmth of her body’s natural temperature.

“That’s … that’s incredible,” he uttered in awe, turning her hand this way and that. It was true. She didn’t burn.

Jon suddenly realized he was being way too familiar and dropped her hand quickly. “Forgive me,” he said. “I was … I didn’t mean to take such liberties. It’s a shocking thing to see. I am starting to understand their devotion to you.” It had taken more than a good speech for the Dothraki to cross the Narrow Sea, after all. This woman was different than the rest of them, he was beginning to comprehend.

“It takes more than a trick to sway the Dothraki,” she said sharply. “They follow strength.”

“Of course,” he acknowledged, slipping his glove back on. “I meant no disrespect.”

Daenerys glanced up towards the tower of the castle. “Should we head back? It’s getting late, and you said you and your men would leave early. I’d like to see you and Ser Jorah off.”

“That is kind of you, Your Grace.” He turned them around, letting her take his arm again as they began their ascent. It had been an interesting trip, to be sure.

“I would ask a favour of the king in the North, if I may,” she said, glancing to him hesitantly to see his face.

“Whatever is in my power,” he answered, feeling her regard him as an equal for perhaps the first time since he'd landed. “Please, you must tell me what I can do.”

“I would ask that you watch out for Ser Jorah.” Her eyes were soft as she implored him. “He is important to me. I wouldn’t – I don’t wish to lose him so soon after he’s returned.”

Something hot shot through Jon’s insides as he stared into her eyes, trying again to discern the root of the relationship. He suppressed it quickly. “I give you my word,” he told her.

She smiled at him. “I’m starting to realize that your word is no small thing. You have integrity, Jon Snow. I believe you to be a man of honour.”

But to hear such a thing from her, Jon’s thoughts instantly summoned an image of Sansa in his bed, his sister spreading her legs for him, and that shame came rushing in like the waves behind them. He felt the charlatan again, leading this woman to believe he was more than he was.

They came up to the landing of the fortress, the great doors still opened wide. Davos had brought back a straggler to join their hunt, and there were many things to finish in the early morning, his thoughts jumping to their departure. One of her dragons flew overhead – he thought it might be Viserion by the coloring – close enough to feel its heat, and it called out its goodbye, Jon wanted to imagine. The sound of its cry was forlorn and it ripped through him, a sudden weariness taking hold of Jon.

Two Dothraki guards came to greet them. “Do you need me to escort you to your chambers, Your Grace?” He didn’t want to leave her just yet.

But she was done with him, it seemed. “No, it’s all right. I have my _kos_ to escort me inside. There are other people to say goodbye to.”

“So then I will see you in the morning,” he confirmed, knowing there was no chance he’d be able to sleep this night, his anxiousness already at work.

She stopped to turn to him, her gaze fixed on him with such a determined light that he took a step back from the sheer power held there.

“Yes, Jon Snow, you will. We will come to see each other again.”

She turned away from him to go inside, and Jon felt the world drop back into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to add, aflashofgreen calling out Jon as a Bond girl in this chapter tickled me to no end. I can see it. 
> 
> And another thing: While Dany's white coat got all the attention - and it was glorious - I myself was particularly in love with Jon's fur coat during all of 7x06. It was gorgeous. Jon Snow looked like he'd just stepped off the catwalk in Paris fashion week. The high back of the collar, the tapered waist, the patchwork, all stunning, and I refuse to believe the wildlings or NW just had that thing lying around, lol.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of show dialogue in this one, mostly from S2 and 7x06/07. Credit to Benioff, Weiss, and Vanessa Taylor. Basically, a greatest hits list for me this chapter.
> 
> tw: for general Littlefinger grossness. 
> 
> Also here be dragonsex. (meaning Jon/Dany)

**xxvi.**

He’s in his bed but Maester Luwin is sitting with him tonight.

_“Every night it’s the same. I’m walking, I’m running. But … I’m not – I’m not me. I’m running through the godswood, sniffing through the dirt. Tasting blood in my mouth when I’ve made a fresh kill. Howling.”_

_Maester Luwin looks at him patiently in his grandfatherly way._

_“Old Nan used to tell us stories of magical people who could live in stags. Birds. Wolves.”_

_“That’s exactly what they are, Bran. Stories.”_

_“So she was lying. They don’t exist.”_

_“Well, they may have done. But they’re gone from the world. Along with much else. These are dreams, Bran. Nothing more._

_“No, my dreams are different. I dreamt of my father dying.”_

_Maester Luwin talks to him with tenderness as he explains the things he’s learned, how every boy wishes he had magical powers to make him special. But Bran knows that he IS special. Different._

_“Maybe magic was once a mighty force in the world. But not anymore. The dragons are gone. The giants are dead, and the Children of the forest forgotten.”_

Then he was no longer in his room, but standing near a garden, watching a man on the other side of a trellis talking to a girl with long white hair.

_“That’s what the warlock wants. He told you so himself. If you enter that place, you will never leave again. His magic is strong.”_

_“And what of my magic? You saw me step into the fire, you saw the witch burn. What did the flames do to me? Do you remember?”_

_The man steps back, devotion in his eyes. “Until my last breath, I will remember. After I have forgotten my mother’s face.” The girl cups the man’s cheek with her hand, imploring him._

_“They are my children. And they are the only children I will ever have.” She strokes his face with compassion, her desperation soothed. “Take me to them.”_

The scene changed and he was outside the city’s walls, standing with Dothraki and the blonde woman, watching a group of perfumed nobles who called themselves the Thirteen clustered before them. A portly man was waving his hands in the air to another, taller man. “The girl threatens to burn our city to the ground, and you want to invite her in for some wine?”

_And then he was yelling at the same man inside his manor, a spice merchant who grinned at him as if he were indulging a silly child. He felt the rage in him, his voice rising. “The people will rise and fight for their rightful queen when I return!”_

_“Ah,” the man said, raising his fingers. “Forgive me, little princess, but I cannot make an investment based on wishes and dreams! Now if you’ll pardon me – ”_

_His anger was hot and livid. “Do you know Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos?”_

_“Yes, we’ve met. A shrewd man.”_

_Then Bran was standing by the merchant watching the young woman with her pale hair, her righteousness suffused by her beauty._

_“For my wedding he gave me three petrified dragon eggs. He believed – the world believed – that the ages had turned them to stone. How many centuries had it been since dragons roamed the skies? But I dreamt that if I carried those eggs into a great fire they would hatch. And when I stepped into the fire my own people thought I was mad, but when the fire burnt out, I was unhurt. The mother of dragons.”_

_She began to walk up the steps towards him. “Do you understand?” She stopped before him. “I’m no ordinary woman. My dreams come true.”_

Bran felt a passing connection to Daenerys Stormborn before the scene was changing again, and then he was in the cold, harsh moors of the North, near the foot of the arrowhead mountain where the Night King had been born. The dead were swarming them, just as they had at the cave, and as Bran looked around he saw the same man who’d spoken to Daenerys, and he saw the Hound, each of them fighting with their last breath, using every manner of weapon that could destroy them. He looked down to the horde from the rock where he stood. Jon knew he would die here, that he had failed. He’d brought them all here to die. He was no king. He was the bringer of death. But he would fight till the end.

And then a great wave of fire and heat scoured the skies above him and he ducked down from the blast of it. When he looked up, he saw her. The mother of dragons. She landed with her beast, sitting atop it like an angel, and he rushed forward, pushing the rest of them out of his way. She had saved them. She had saved _him_. And his heart opened to a flood.

Suddenly, a great scream rent the air and Bran watched one of the dragons skewered through the chest as a sheet of blood rained down, its body plummeting until it crashed through the ice and into the lake.

The moment skipped ahead and he felt colder than he’d ever been, his body freezing, as he made his way out of the melted lake to draw another breath. And then more of them came, Jon all alone. But Bran had seen this, knew Jon would risk his life for her. Uncle Benjen came riding up to Jon to save him, just as Benjen had once done for him and Meera, and Jon was thrown onto Benjen’s horse while their uncle was overtaken by the dead. Bran didn’t want to see and so he looked away to –

_A different place, somewhere inside where a fire roared in the hearth, and he saw Jon in a room that rocked on the sea, saw the mother of dragons cradle his face, searching his eyes. They sat facing each other amidst crumpled sheets in a large bed, both of them naked. “You are mine now,” she told Jon. “And those who would hurt you, I promise, will die screaming.”_

Bran’s eyes snapped open, into the darkness of his bedchamber. He didn’t want to see anymore. He pulled himself up by the rope over his bed, knowing he was back in Winterfell. Hodor was gone. Maester Luwin was gone. Osha was gone. Bran took a long breath, the image of Jon with Daenerys Stormborn still fresh in his mind.

“Jon,” he croaked into the night. “Time to come home now.”

* * *

Arya sat with her brother and Sansa in the solar as they supped together. Tension strangled the air, and she would have avoided coming altogether had Bran not insisted she join them, the siblings forgoing the Great Hall for some privacy. She’d shown Bran the letter Sansa had written several days before, but he’d not had the same reaction as her, which she supposed she ought to have expected. Bran didn’t have a normal reaction to anything these days.

“Yes, she wrote it under the instruction of Cersei and her council. What of it?” he’d asked her with a steady disinterest while they talked in his room.

“So, you don’t find that disloyal?” she’d goaded. “Trying to convince Robb that he should have bent the knee to Joffrey after he’d cut off our father’s head?”

Bran had stared at her with that unsettling blankness at first, but then an eyebrow had raised, a small concession to emotion.

“She was thirteen, a child. And terrified. She told you she saw Father’s head mounted on the castle walls. Who do you think took her there? Did she also tell you that Joffrey had Ser Meryn beat her at court? She witnessed the horror first hand. You had Yoren to protect you from that. Even if your imagination provided the rest.” 

Bran had cocked his head, appearing almost disappointed. “But if you truly want to know, why don’t you play your game of faces and find out yourself?”

Arya had been startled once more by how much Bran knew. She recalled the conversation with Yoren as she sat with her brother and sister for dinner, how she’d tried to put those pictures in her mind away so she could sleep at night. And how Yoren had told her the story of Willem and inspired her list, had given her a prayer to keep vengeance alive in her heart.

_“How do you sleep when you – when you have those things in your head?”_

_“You didn’t see that. I made damn sure.”_

_“When I close my eyes, I see them up there. All of them standing there. Joffrey. The Queen. And … and my sister.”_

She’d felt betrayed by Sansa back then, and the feeling had settled within her. All of those wild emotions that she’d stuffed down from that day, she’d unstoppered to let them come pouring out when she’d confronted Sansa with the scroll, standing on the walkway next to slabs of meat as her memory slid back again to the butcher’s boy, Mycah, that first betrayal. She had wanted to blame Sansa for all of it. Part of her knew it was unfair, but Sansa had been next to all of the people who had betrayed their father and had done nothing. Arya had felt so powerless then, yet after talking to her brother she was willing to concede that Sansa had probably felt that, too. The game of faces had shown her that Sansa hadn’t been lying about Jon. She’d told her sister a story and inserted the lie, and Sansa had caught it, had told the truth. Of course, Sansa didn’t know she was playing the game at the time.

"I don’t want to play," her sister had answered when Arya had found her in her room the next morning, holding Walder Frey’s face, reminding Arya of her outburst to Jaqen H’ghar. _I’m not playing this stupid game anymore!_ Sansa had won, unbeknownst to her, and Arya had given her the dagger. Fair was fair. _I’ve suffered things you could never imagine._ Arya believed it now. Bran mentioning Sansa’s abuse at the hands of Meryn Trant had softened Arya the tiniest bit towards her sister, the recollection of his death now all the sweeter.

_We both wanted to be different people when we were younger. You wanted to be a queen – to sit next to a handsome young king on the Iron throne. I wanted to be a knight. To pick up a sword like father and go off to battle. Neither of us got to be that other person, did we? The world doesn’t just let girls decide what they’re going to be._

She watched her sister eating, Sansa holding herself stiffly, while the servants from the kitchen came back with more drink. Arya held out her cup for more refreshment and flashed a look at Bran, nudging him with widened eyes and her eyebrows arched high as she waited for him to say something to break the unbearable silence. Sansa didn’t look too happy, and Arya was still suspicious. She wanted to know what her sister did in their big brother’s chambers, away from Littlefinger and the rest of the lords. She believed that Sansa was loyal to Jon, had heard it in her sister’s voice. But she heard much else as well. She just didn’t know what any of it meant yet.

Then there was the fuckery of Littlefinger to figure out, a man who looked to chaos to advance an opportunity, as he’d once told Tywin Lannister. That Sansa continued to take meetings with him made Arya question Littlefinger’s hold over her. Sansa herself had declared him untrustworthy. So what game was she playing at?

“Some of the lords are still complaining about Jon’s absence,” Bran finally spoke aloud. Sansa glanced up from her plate sharply. “They don’t seem to understand the nature of what he’s doing on Dragonstone.”

“Can you blame them?” Sansa responded heatedly, and Arya felt her anger flare. “It’s been months since we’ve heard from him. We don’t know what progress has been made, if any. If he’s … if he’s even alive,” she muttered.

“He’s alive,” Bran stated calmly. “His raven was lost on its journey to Winterfell.”

Both Arya and Sansa sat up straighter in their chairs, the news giving way to hope that Jon would return soon.

“Do you know what it said?” she asked.

Bran shrugged. “I know that the falcon whose belly the raven now resides in cannot inform me of the parchment’s contents.”

Sansa’s expression had turned hopeful. “But can you see Jon?” she asked, a sudden light in her face that hadn’t been there in weeks and a tingling arose along Arya’s flesh to see it. “Do you know what he’s doing?”

Bran sat with his hands in his lap, his food barely touched. “He has left Dragonstone.” He turned silent again and both her and her sister waited for him to finish.

Arya spread her hands wide. “And?” she asked with impatience. She loved Bran, she did, but he was maddening.

“And he sails for King’s Landing. You received the invite yourself, Sansa.”

The fork dropped from Sansa’s hand, clattering to the plate. “What?” she exclaimed in her shock. “He’s going to the summit?” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “How long have you known this?”

“Not long.”

But Sansa pressed her brother, demanding to know more details. “So he only just left then? If he’s not arrived yet, then he can’t have set sail but a few days ago. Why is Jon going to Cersei’s parley? He _swore_ to me he wouldn’t go there!” Her distress seemed to heighten with every question.

“What parley with Cersei? What’s going on?” This was the first Arya was hearing of any of this, her focus having been so fixated on Littlefinger’s plots and Sansa’s secrecy.

“Cersei invited me to King’s Landing for a supposed armistice and a bit of theatre. Well, a demonstration is what it said, but was no doubt a trap to get me back there. So I sent Brienne to represent our interests. It said nothing about the King in the North attending.”

“You think Cersei would have invited you and not Jon?” Bran asked flatly.

“The invitation implied it was sent to the Lords Paramount of Westeros. As Lady of Winterfell, my position means that as head of House Stark, I would be one of those Lords,” Sansa said, tapping her finger to the table with punishing insistence for emphasis. “If she wanted to drive a wedge between me and Jon by ignoring his kingship, then yes, she would make a point of not inviting him. Besides, he already refused to bend the knee to her. He’s risking his life going there, we can’t trust Cersei.”

“So _that’s_ why you sent Brienne to the capital?” Arya frowned at her sister. “She’s your sworn sword, her sole duty is to protect you and you sent her away?” It left Sansa vulnerable to Littlefinger.

Her sister had picked up her fork to resume eating, but simply dragged it around her food as she kept her gaze on her plate. “She’s your protector, too, as you both so love to remind me,” she said snidely. “Although you hardly appear to be in need of one.”

“It’s Jon who brings the theatre,” their brother interrupted. “Jon and Daenerys. They’re the reason Cersei is calling for the parley to begin with. Theon’s on his way there, too.” Sansa dropped her fork again.

“What?! Jon will be in the same room as Theon?” Sansa looked terrified at the prospect and once again, Arya wondered what had happened there to solidify Sansa’s loyalty to a Greyjoy. “What do you mean by all of this? What _theatre_ is Jon involved in with that Targaryen woman?”

Bran picked up his cup and stared at its contents. “They need to convince Cersei that the Army of the Dead is on the march so that she’ll pull back her armies. So they’re bringing her proof by transporting a wight. One of the dead men for her to lay her eyes on.” He took a sip of his water and set it back down, shifting his focus to his food.

“And how exactly did he manage to do that from Dragonstone?” Arya asked sarcastically, gaining the sense that there was a lot of information they were still missing.

“He left for the North a month ago.”

Sansa stood up in a shot, a knife plinking and thudding to the floor as it fell from her plate.

She glared at their brother. “Jon went North?!” she screeched. “Beyond the Wall? And you didn’t tell me?” her voice cracked, a hitch in her breath.

“I only saw it last night.”

“He obviously didn’t feel the need to tell me, either. I haven’t heard from him in weeks.”

“He tried. The raven was eaten, I told you.” Bran didn’t seem to find any of it unusual.

“And now? How is he now?” she asked leaning towards him, her tone measured this time. Arya could see Sansa’s fingers trembling as she pressed them to the table.

“The mission didn’t go well. But Jon … he’s had an epiphany.”

“An epiphany?” Sansa echoed dully, her face disbelieving. “And what would that be?”

“I don’t know. I suppose we’ll have to wait till he gets here to tell us.”

“But he’s alright?” Arya asked again, the air crackling as she watched both Sansa and Bran keep things from each other and from her in what they weren’t saying. _Watching is not seeing_ , she heard her old teacher remind her. “This mission he went on. He wasn’t hurt?”

“Not in the way you might think,” Bran said. Arya wanted to shake him.

“Either he was wounded or he wasn’t,” Sansa said sharply. “Which is it?”

Bran looked away from them, towards the hearth. “I’ve upset you. I didn’t mean to.”

“Just answer her, Bran.” Arya wanted to know as well.

“He almost drowned. And might have succumbed to the shock of the freezing water, if the lake hadn’t been set ablaze. But he didn’t. He’s safe now.”

Then with a sudden violence, Sansa burst into a sob. She caught herself, holding her stomach and her mouth with the flat of her palms, sucking in a deep breath until she could collect her wits and compose herself. When she looked up at them both, Arya was struck by the grief in her sister’s face. She didn’t understand it. Bran had just finished telling them that Jon was all right.

“Forgive me, I’m not feeling terribly well. I think I’ll head to bed early.”

She left in a rustling of silk, her dress impeccable as always, but Arya remained shocked by her sister’s reaction.

“What do you think that was all about?” she asked her brother.

Bran was quiet for a moment as he picked up a piece of potato from his plate to inspect it. “Sansa worries about Jon a great deal.”

It felt cutting to hear him acknowledge their closeness, as if Arya wasn’t just as much a part of the family. “I worry about him, too,” she reminded him.

Then Bran locked eyes with her and Arya felt her mouth go dry, a chill up her back, something transcending in his gaze as if he could view her entire life in the space of a second. “Sansa knows you love Jon. Yet she fears this about you. That you love him more than you care about her. That you think she would betray him.”

“I don’t. I know that she’s telling the truth about him,” Arya stated with conviction. “But she has other secrets.”

“She does,” her brother agreed.

Arya waited a beat. “So what are they?” she finally asked.

His expression was almost moved to surprise. “I don’t know, Arya.”

“You’re the Three-Eyed Raven. I thought you knew everything.”

His eyes dropped back to his food. “There are some things I don’t want to know,” he said softly.

“But you know things about me,” she rebuffed. “You don’t mind having a look into my past, into what I did.”

“You don’t mind it, either,” Bran answered truthfully.

“You’re right,” she said. “I don’t care what you see. I did what I did, and I’d do it again.” She took a swig of her ale as she watched her brother finally consume the wedge of potato.

“Why is Theon going to be at this … this summit or whatever it is?” she asked. “What is he hoping to do there?”

“Theon and his sister are allies to Daenerys Targaryen. She is bringing her Unsullied and her Dothraki to the capital with her.”

“And Jon? He only had a small retinue of soldiers with him, Sansa said. Will he be safe there?”

“I don’t know that Jon is ever safe,” her brother noted flatly. “But he will make it back to Winterfell. I’ve seen it. He’ll bring an army with him.”

“ _Her_ army?” Arya snapped her eyes towards Bran. “He’ll bring Daenerys to the North?”

“We’re going to need her dragons,” Bran said ominously, before turning to face the fire in the hearth. “If we want to save Winterfell.”

Arya thought of how different she found the castle, how it no longer filled her with the same sense of home now that she was actually within its walls. “Hopefully, Theon Greyjoy won’t arrive with them. Not if he wants to keep his head.”

But Bran wouldn’t hear it. He faced Arya with something resembling empathy in his eyes. “Theon has been through enough. He knows he chose wrong. And he paid for it in blood.”

“How can you say that,” Arya argued. “He chased you out of your home. He killed our people, set Winterfell on fire.”

“I remember that morning when he came into my room, after I’d sent men to Torrhen’s Square, leaving us defenseless. He told me he was a Greyjoy; that he couldn’t fight for Robb and his father, both. I asked him, then. Had he hated us the whole time?” Then Bran seemed to be lost in the past, and emotion ghosted his features for a moment, his eyes going dark as tears formed there. “After I’d yielded to him, he made me tell everyone in the courtyard. Then Ser Rodrik returned and Theon sentenced him to death, for disrespecting him. I remember screaming – begging him, begging anyone to help us, to make it stop. Hush child, Ser Rodrik told me. ‘ _I’m off to see your father.’_ When his head rolled towards us, Rickon clung to me as he cried, while I screamed and screamed. I remember Ser Rodrik telling him right before the blade came down, ‘ _Gods help you, Theon Greyjoy, now you are truly lost’_. And he has been ever since.”

He looked up at Arya and then his face schooled into nothingness again. “I was the one who sent those orphan boys to help the farmer, the ones Theon had murdered to pass them off as me and Rickon. Because he couldn’t find us. I’m just as responsible for their deaths as him.”

“That’s not true. He deserves to die for what he did,” Arya said, her fury fueled by the terrible scene Bran had depicted.

“No. He doesn’t,” Bran insisted calmly. He looked behind him and then back at her. “If it’s not too much bother, do you mind taking me back to my room? I think I’m ready to retire for the evening, as well.”

Arya was disappointed. It was rare that she got such a detailed story from Bran of the things he’d been through. She had hoped for more. But she stood up straight away.

“Of course. I’m done, anyway. I … have some people to check on before I head to my room.”

She would make sure that Littlefinger stayed away from her sister.

* * *

Petyr watched her tap the scroll repeatedly to her desk, her anger just barely controlled.

“It’s not easy for ravens to fly in these storms,” he suggested, studying her face. “Perhaps Jon had tried to send word earlier.”

Sansa shook her head grimly. “No,” she said with derision. “This is the way he is. This is the way he’s always been. He never asked for my opinion, why should he start now?”

“I can’t believe he’d surrender the Northern crown without consulting you.” The news had brought him a great opportunity and he aimed to stoke the fire of rejection that burned within her. But he was curious still if she would choose the bastard over Arya Stark.

She held the scroll up to him. “This is his writing. His signature. He pledged to fight for Daenerys Targaryen.” Her hand dropped with her disappointment. “He’s bent the knee.”

For weeks Petyr had wondered, had teased the possibility out of the words she would give him, just how badly Sansa wanted her brother back, if there was some sort of dark lust between them. It had been easy enough to get her doubting her sister, and in another bit of good fortune, Cersei had requested Sansa’s presence in the capital. In response, Sansa had sent Lady Brienne in her place, just as he’d eased her towards. With that great beast of a woman out of the way, he could pit the sisters against each other with next to no intervention, their little brother spending so much of his days wasting away in the godswood he would scarce notice. Sansa was a copy to Catelyn in many ways, but it had been Lysa who'd been the easier target, her jealousy so full to bursting it hadn’t taken much at all for Petyr to turn her against her family. Arya was a jealous girl, too; a jealous assassin. That jealousy seemed to spring from the battle over their half-brother and who was more loyal to him, and it occurred to Petyr that young Arya Stark might seek a position by her brother’s side. At least, that’s what he needed Sansa to conclude.

Yet the bastard had now declared fealty to this new queen. It hadn’t taken long. That brought with it the subtle notion that he had done more than bend the knee to her. Petyr walked along the hearth, playing with the little wolf sculpture that sat on the mantle as he spoke.

“I’ve heard gossip. The dragon queen is quite beautiful.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” he heard her object from behind him.

Petyr turned around to face her, watching her carefully. “Jon is young and unmarried. Daenerys is young and unmarried.”

Her eyes went wide. “You think he wants to _marry_ her?” She seemed incredulous.

“An alliance makes sense,” he posed. “Together, they’d be difficult to beat.” He ambled towards her, resting his hands on the back of the chair that sat across from her. “He was named king in the North. He can be unnamed.” He thought he detected a glint in her eye for a moment, her mouth open in surprise, but she quickly dropped her gaze, grimacing as though she were contemplating it.

“Even if I wanted to, Arya would never go along. She always loved Jon _far_ more than she loved me, and she’d kill anyone who betrayed her family.”

“You’re her family, too,” Petyr reminded her. He stood up and played to her fears. “Would Arya really murder her own sister?” he asked ineffectually.

“Do you know what she is now?” Of course he knew, but he didn’t say anything. “Do you know what the Faceless Men are?”

“Only by reputation.” He walked away again to the window, appearing half-interested. “They worship the God of Death, I believe. I never trust godly men.” Instead, he let her tell her tale; let her believe she was giving him information he did not already possess.

“They’re killers. And Arya is one of them.” She held Petyr’s gaze, her anxiety etched in every feature. “What do you think she’s after?”

“She’s your sister,” he declared. “You know her far better than I ever could.”

Sansa rested her mouth to her fist, deep in contemplation, and Petyr decided it was time to play his final hand.

“Sometimes, when I try to understand a person’s motives, I play a little game.” He sat down before her. “I assume the worst. What is the worst reason they could possibly have for saying what they say, and doing what they do? Then I ask myself, how well does that reason explain what they say, and what they do. So tell me, what’s the worst thing she could want?”

He coached her through it, beat-by-beat, until he got her to the answer she feared the most.

“The Lady of Winterfell.” Sansa looked to him with shock in her eyes. Petyr tipped his head to the side, his lips pressed tight as though he couldn’t help to agree that it made sense with Sansa laying it out in such fashion.

“What do you think I should do?” Sansa asked him, a growing panic in her voice.

He shrugged, dragging out the dread. “You could wait for your brother, the Warden of the North, to settle it. Or you could handle this yourself. Your sister is quite possibly a danger. To you, and to Brandon. You said it yourself; she loves Jon more than anyone else, she’d kill anyone who she thought had betrayed him. What else would she do to stand by his side?”

“It would require a trial before our vassals,” she said. “But I’ll need more proof first that she plots to have me killed. I can’t tell Jon. He won’t believe me.”

“You said you and Jon were close … _very_ close,” he said earnestly. “Your sister hasn’t seen him since she was a young girl. And he doesn’t know what she’s become. Who would he trust more?” He raised an eyebrow. “Or perhaps, it won’t matter with his new queen on his arm.”

She flashed her eyes dangerously. “He’s not going to marry her,” she insisted angrily. “He’s already bent the knee to her, what would marriage do for him now?”

“Indeed. Perhaps someone should have suggested it before he left, and the North would still have its independence. Of course, Daenerys isn’t _on_ the Iron Throne yet, is she?”

“No, she’s coming here, to Winterfell, to help us fight the Army of the Dead with her dragons and her Unsullied and her Dothraki armies. I suppose Jon did keep his word on that. Of course, we never discussed how I'm supposed to feed them all.”

“And to whom else did he give his word?” Petyr asked with his eyes on hers, his voice hinting at the slightest innuendo. “What did he promise _you_ before he left, my lady?”

“He made the same promise he gave to everyone else, I just told you,” she replied, brittle with her annoyance.

“The lords of the North will not take this news well,” he predicted. “Putting your sister on trial, showing them what a danger she has become, worshiping a god of death – they will respect you for it. Best to do it now. And when Jon returns, maybe they will no longer have need for a Warden of the North.” He quirked an eyebrow upward. “If that is what you wish, of course. Or perhaps you would prefer your brother for yourself.”

“What do you mean by that?” she asked sharply, her eyes narrowed.

“The two of you haven’t always agreed on matters of state, your bannermen have been witness to this. But it has also been made plain that you both have great affection for each other, that you are as devoted to him as he is to you. We’ve seen this, too. If you stand behind Jon, you will have to stand behind Daenerys Targaryen. And if we win this war, we beat back the dead, where do you think the Dragon Queen will be taking your brother next?”

He saw the look of fear loom larger in her eyes then, the idea of her bastard brother in King’s Landing fighting a foreign queen’s war more of a concern than the treason of her sister.

“That won’t happen,” she said quietly. She stood up slowly. “Lord Baelish, you know that your counsel has been invaluable to me these many years. I ... understand now that you only ever wanted to protect me and that … you made a mistake, one you regret deeply.”

“I do,” he said instantly. “Sansa, know this – I would do anything for you, whatever is in my power.” He stood as well, watching her come around her desk to move towards him. She stood close to him, and carefully placed her hands to either side of his face, as she had before, cradling him as she gazed deeply into his eyes. Her sight fell to his lips and Petyr felt a momentary surprise. This was almost becoming routine.

When she tilted her head forward to kiss him, he felt her body stiff at first. He waited, patient as ever, barely returning the kiss until a sudden ferocity took hold of her and she spread her mouth over his, a tongue seeking entry. Petyr pulled her to him by her waist, quick to respond to her, wondering where this desire had sprung from. His fingers dragged through her hair as their kiss gained intensity, Sansa eager to prove her sexual maturity to him. She wanted to show him something and Petyr had known this day would arrive. He felt a sweet vindication as she gave a shocked little moan into his mouth. When she drew back suddenly, the soft leather of her gloves still caressing his face, her eyes were wide.

“Is this what you want?” she asked, breathless.

Was it? He thought again of his beloved Catelyn, how as a boy of fifteen he had been dumb enough to end up in a duel with Brandon Stark in an attempt to win her love, and how the experience had only left him bitter and disfigured, the true nature of the world laid bare. _I was her little confidante, her plaything,_ he had told his whores. But he wasn’t a plaything to Sansa, his pupil having returned with a plea in her eyes. He thought of his long-standing hatred of the Starks and his promise to himself. _I’m not going to fight them. I’m going to fuck them. That’s what I know. That’s what I am._

And only by admitting what he was had he been able to get what he wanted. Petyr had known it ever since that day he fell to his knees in the river with a belly full of blood. That he was here in the seat of the Stark’s power, surrounded by Ned Stark’s children and their very lives in his hands, had seemed enough to slake his vengeance, he had thought. But perhaps he wanted more than he was willing to admit. Did he love this girl, or merely want her flesh? The years of planning and plotting, moving towards this very moment, had made it difficult for Petyr to feel much of anything other than an overriding hunger.

“I want only what makes you happy,” he told her, brushing the back of his hand against her cheek. He would let her make the first move, as he well understood that the pain of Ramsay’s treatment was still with her. A battered dog would bare its teeth and growl to an outstretched finger at first, but with patience and a soothing voice, they would come to eat out of their new master’s hand, eager for some protection. Petyr had waited faithfully for her to regain her trust in him, while Jon Snow had left his sister, certainly with the knowledge of what she had faced. If her half-brother had lain with her, then Petyr might learn the truth of it soon enough between her legs.

“I don’t know what makes me happy anymore,” she confessed to him miserably.

“Yes you do,” he insisted. He leaned in to kiss her again, holding the back of her head, but this time Sansa took a step back, the press of her hand to his chest as was her usual habit.

“I think I’m not quite ready.” She stood taller; her shoulders reared back as she faced him with a radiating strength. For a moment, he was a proud father, recalling the days when he thought of Sansa as the daughter he could have had with Cat. She had learned so much. “I hope you understand, Lord Baelish.”

“Perhaps it is time to call me Petyr,” he tried. He wanted to build upon this newfound intimacy. “Of course I understand, my dear. I have known women who … were abused horribly by men. And I have always endeavored to help them in my own way. To give them the time they needed to feel proper again.”

Sansa’s eyes turned to slits as they stayed steady on his, her voice hard. “You mean your whores?”

He thought of Ros and her end, the story he’d once shared with her becoming a prophecy to her eventual fate. “In my line of business, once a girl was in my employ, I made sure those horrible situations never happened again,” he lied. “Ramsay Bolton is dead. You saw to it. He can’t hurt you, Sansa.”

She seemed to study him, her eyes roving over his face with intensity. “No one will ever hurt me again.”

“No, they won’t. Not even your sister.”

She shook her head with commitment. “Not my sister.”

“And your half-brother?”

He heard her intake of breath as she took a step back. “Jon would never hurt me,” she insisted. “He is good and kind and he loves me.”

Heat prickled against the back of his neck. “Of course, he does, my dear. Perhaps even more than he loves your sister.”

“It’s not a contest for his affection,” she said, looking down at her desk. “I need to get that letter back from Arya, first. Can you see to it?” She raised her head to lock eyes with his, so much promise held there. “I would be most grateful.” Every word weighted with insinuation.

Petyr was amused to see her attempt at sexual manipulation. She was learning.

“Consider it done, my lady.”

* * *

Small waves rolled across the top of the water as the ship sailed closer to harbor, the sun only just brightening the sky. Jon was up on deck, arms crossed on the boat’s railing as he gazed across the bay to the looming sight of the fortress. He’d been up for a while. In less than an hour, he would be back on Dragonstone, and Daenerys would be waiting for him. The last look she had given him before he'd boarded was still present in his mind, this yearning that stretched between them reflected there in her eyes. It left Jon pondering what he should do about it, if he even had a right to do anything at all. She was his queen now. The queen who had dropped everything to come and rescue him from another death. The power of that had stayed with him, dragging him out of the water when he’d crashed through the ice, dead men clinging to him like leeches as they sought to bring him back to that annihilating blackness.

Moments before that, when he’d thought all was lost, he had wished for death, had wanted it to be over. But then Daenerys Targaryen had come for him, as no one had ever done before. And that alone had driven him, had made Jon raise his sword to the oncoming dead once he’d pulled himself to land, had made him stay on his horse as he watched Uncle Benjen go down, had him arriving at Eastwatch barely alive but holding on with every breath. For her.

And after he’d revived to find her there, waiting at his bedside, Jon had known in his heart that she was the one to lead them, that she was the true savior to the North. He felt bound to her, ready to do anything he could just to be by her side and gaze upon her. Daenerys was like no one else on this earth. Being stuck in bed for several days as he’d recuperated, Jon had thought of little else but the gift she had given him. She had gone ahead of them on Drogon then as well, and he suspected part of her insistence on solitary travel was to mourn the dragon she’d lost. Her child. The only ones she would ever have, she’d told him – and Jon had felt her grief cut him deep as she’d held his hand. He knew he was responsible for her loss and the guilt over that had been so great there was no possibility that he could lie about the oath he’d made to her. He couldn’t do it. There in the Dragon pit, he’d been as shocked as any of them by Cersei’s request that he would stay out of their war and take no side. It had further shocked him to discover that Daenerys hadn’t even told her Hand about him swearing fealty to her. He wondered the reason for it as he watched Rhaegal skiff the water and snap up his morning meal.

The moment had felt so heavy, but by then he’d been done with deceit and had made his choice. Deceit had only brought him low, having to hide what he'd been doing with Sansa from everyone who looked at him with any measure of respect. It sickened him. He would continue to protect his sister, of course, but he would not lie to Daenerys about anything else. He wanted her, but more than anything he wanted to be cleansed by her.

Jon heard footsteps coming up behind him.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he heard Davos say an instance before he appeared beside him. Davos leaned against the boat’s edge as Jon did and scanned the skies before glancing over to him.

“You can feel the cold coming. Like pellets of ice in the wind. Winter is surely coming for the rest of Westeros, Your Grace. I shudder to think of what the cold will feel like back in Winterfell.”

“I’m not a king any longer, Davos,” he said to the sea. “I’m no one’s Grace, and I never was. You need to stop saying that.”

“Hard habit to break,” his man mumbled. “Apologies, my lord.”

“What’s wrong with my name,” he questioned. “You’re my friend, Davos. No one is around, there’s no illusion to uphold here. Jon is fine.”

He heard the man sigh heavily. “I know that, Jon. But I’m worried about ye. You haven’t said much since we left that bloody place.”

Jon turned to Davos. “I’m fine. Just planning our forces best route home. With the Unsullied returned, it seems smarter to have the Dothraki ride on the Kings Road, while we have the Unsullied sail with us, the queen, and her council to White Harbor.”

“Aye, makes sense. I’m sure the Dothraki would prefer it. The Unsullied will need to load up on provisions when we’re back on Dragonstone, of course, but …” He eyed Jon suspiciously.

“What?”

Davos glanced behind them at the sails above. “We’re on the queen’s boat, flying the queen’s sigil.” He looked hard at Jon. “I suspect you would prefer we sail back with the queen, as well.”

Jon frowned. “Well, I don’t think Daenerys is going to fly Drogon all the way to Winterfell.”

Davos looked ahead to the island, where Drogon could be seen circling the tower, and nodded towards it. “You think she won’t? She flew all the way to Eastwatch for you.”

He straightened, turning fully to Davos as a familiar shame welled inside him. “She came for all of us. That’s who she is. I’m not … it wasn’t just me,” he declared weakly.

“Right. Of course. And yet, I don’t happen to recall Daenerys watching over any of the other men's bedside for three days straight until they woke up.”

Jon felt the heat rush his face as he attempted to change the direction of the conversation. “I was out for three days? No one told me that.”

“Aye, she watched from the door as we got you wrapped up in dry furs to get you warm again. She waited up in the lookout nest at the Wall till she was practically frozen, but wouldn’t leave until you returned.”

“What are you saying, Davos?” Guilt and shame and longing made for a dismal but potent mix that churned in his gut.

Davos’s eyes met his with a fond amusement. “I’m saying she’s in love with you, Jon. As you are her.”

Instantly, Jon darted eyes behind them, making sure no one was within earshot. “Davos, keep your voice down,” he hissed. He shook his head in disbelief. “She’s not. I’m … we’re not, it’s not like that.”

“Ah, nothing quite as vociferous as the protestations of a man in love,” Davos continued. “I may be old, Jon, but I’m not blind.”

With a rush of breath, Jon realized his emotions hadn’t been as veiled as he’d hoped. He didn’t bother to keep up the game. “It doesn’t matter. My feelings … they don’t matter. We have a war to fight.”

Davos reached for him, gripping him by the arm. “Jon, you want to live. We all do. So _live_. You were both destined to meet for a reason.”

“She doesn’t know who I am, Davos,” Jon whispered. “Who I really am.”

“Yes, she does,” his friend asserted. “After that show of loyalty in the Dragon pit? We all know who you are, Jon. That’s why we believe in you. You’re a better man than the rest of us.”

A wave of nausea hit him hard and he bent over the ship’s edge to breathe in the salt air. “Davos, stop. I’m no better than anyone else. Worse.”

But Davos held on to him, trying to turn Jon’s body so he could gaze into his face. “Jon, what’s got you talking like this? Don’t beat yourself up over what happened in King’s Landing. Tyrion was able to work it out. This is a good thing you’ve done for your people. You’ve given them a chance.”

“She has,” Jon said thickly, closing his eyes as he sucked in great lungfuls of the wind.

“Jon, the difference in the man who left Winterfell to the man who left for Eastwatch is night and day. I’d not seen you that content in some time. Maybe never. She’s been good for you. And then you almost died and that woman sat by your side, worrying over you the entire time. The way she looks at you, you don't walk away from that.”

Jon wanted to believe Davos with all his heart, but there was Sansa to consider. She would see him bending the knee as a betrayal already. But to show up with Daenerys by his side, he was going to have a difficult time masking his emotions in front of his sister. He didn’t want to hurt her.

“Sansa’s going to be angry about this,” he said aloud. “That I gave up my crown.”

“Aye, she will, I expect. But then she’ll get over it.”

Jon glanced at Davos with heavy doubt. “You think she’ll accept Daenerys?”

“She will for you.” But Jon was still unsure and his face must have shown it. Davos heaved another sigh. “Your sister is a formidable woman, there’s no denying that. She wants what’s best for the North. As do you, Jon. Your sister wasn’t there when you made your decision. She wasn’t in the muck with you, doing whatever it took to make peace by giving our enemies the physical embodiment of what they’re about to face. She hasn’t seen what you’ve seen, done what you’ve done. You need to trust yourself. And you need to trust her. She loves you.”

Jon snapped his eyes up in horror, the words feeling like an accusation. Davos only watched his reaction patiently. He felt a stab in his gut again, his body turning cold as the need to purge his sins grew stronger and stronger. “Aye, she does … love me,” he rasped, eyeing Davos steadily. “And I don’t –” He tried to swallow, the truth a stone in his throat. “I don’t know what to do about that.”

Davos’s eyes widened the tiniest fraction. He sucked in a breath before he leaned in close, putting a hand to the back of Jon’s neck.

“Jon.” Davos spoke quietly even though there was no one else nearby, still too early for any activity to begin. “You told me there wasn’t anything waiting for us on the other side. That you saw nothing. And if that’s true, then this life is all we have to see beyond the sufferin’. The only place we’ll find some bloody peace. To know another soul, truly know them, and let them into your heart, is a precious thing.” Davos tipped his head as Jon felt hot tears prick his eyes. “Whatever went on – the two of you needed each other. You both went through something, and I know what that kind of devastation can do to a person. But, son, you’re allowed to be happy. It’s all right. And your sister wants you to be happy, as well. She’ll understand.”

“What are we talking about, Davos?” Was Davos intimating that Sansa would understand Jon giving up the North - or falling in love with someone else?

Davos gripped Jon’s neck with determination. “We’re talking about you and happiness,” he insisted. “For all we know, a month from now might see the end of the world. Let’s live every day like it’s our last until then. Do we have a deal?”

Jon wanted to live. For the woman who had saved him. The slightest weight lifted from his heart as he felt himself nod back to Davos. “Deal,” he whispered, as he closed his eyes.

******

******

_Jon raised his hand._

_She was reaching for him, her hand outstretched to pull him to her, their fingers almost touching. Drogon roared and breathed fire across the ice and the dead but Jon only saw her, the rest of the world shut out. Behind her was a wall of fire, the heat billowing towards Jon, warming him through, and she glowed within that conflagration, a pulse around her like a heartbeat. She was the Unburnt. Unscorched. Jon grabbed on to her hand and it was like holding onto a flame, his flesh burning, melting, but he held on, regardless. His arm burned too, and he watched the flames dance across his skin, and soon the fire spread inside him. And Jon breathed out with a sigh of pleasure; the flames caught in his body making his heart explode. Dany pulled him onto her dragon’s back –_

Jon snapped open his eyes with a start.

His heart was beating rapidly, the air around him cloying, a blanket of heat, and as he sat up he noticed he’d kicked away all of his covers, his body bare to the elements. He felt on fire, still, the remnants of his dream alive in his skin.

When he looked down at his nakedness, he knew that he was hard, too. Every night since they’d left King’s Landing had been the same. He’d dreamed of her rescue, saw the same scene play over and over, and every time, he’d taken her hand. Felt his body burn. He craved it. Jon wanted her more than anything he’d ever wanted in his life.

Some nights, he’d dreamed he was back in that total darkness, had felt his body rising through it and then there she was, reaching down to bring him over into life. He’d wake up to an eruption of light and fire, his teeth chattering but the warmth an effusive trail of lava in his veins.

The ship lurched and groaned but Jon was used to it now. He’d spent months on the sea, something he never would have foreseen when he lived at the Wall. But here he was, the Warden of the North, rock hard for a queen who was sleeping a hundred paces away from him. And Jon wanted to act, as sure as the blood that rushed through him.

She had been quick to agree to his suggestion of sailing together and he had taken it as a hopeful sign. But outside of a few intimate conversations at Dragonstone, he’d done nothing to indicate just how much he needed to be in her presence while they’d prepared for their journey.

But here they were at sea, onwards to Winterfell, and a nervous energy jumped in Jon’s belly every minute of his day and certainly through his nights. It had been difficult not to show it during dinner, as he sat with Daenerys and her council, Lady Brienne having been asked to join them. Jon was grateful for it. Whether it had been Tyrion’s suggestion or the queen’s, he needed Brienne to like Daenerys, needed her to pass that approval on to Sansa. Conversation around the table had been tepid, even Varys uncharacteristically mute, as they each contemplated their mortality in the war that lied in wait. But Jon had made a promise to Davos. If he was fated to duel the Night King, if he would not live through this war, then he would take the risk, would show himself to Dany.

Meanwhile, Tyrion had continued in his funk, chiding Jon for his misstep every opportunity he’d had. Jon had almost come to relish it, but took no guff when seated across from him, the lord Hand well in his cups by the time dessert had arrived. He’d asked Jon what he thought of the wine.

“It’s good,” Jon had offered. “I’ve definitely grown a taste for it during my time on Dragonstone,” he’d added, nodding gratefully towards Dany with a small smile.

“Is that true?” Tyrion had asked. The manner of his speech was lofty and doubtful, brow furrowed. “You wouldn’t lie to me, would you, Lord Snow? An honourable man, such as yourself. I know how you hate to lie.”

“Aye, I do.” He hadn’t let Tyrion ruffle him the entire evening. Instead, he’d raised his wine and taken a long swig, almost emptying the glass, the explosion of tart grapes and earthy berries across his tongue a welcome flavor. He kept his eyes on Dany as he set it down, seeing her delicate lashes fanned downward, her gaze to the table but the slight uptick of her lips telling him she was completely aware he was watching her. He had let his mind wander as he imagined what she tasted like between her legs. “But I’m not merely being polite when I say this is a fine vintage.”

“Funny. I distinctly recall a lie or two on our way to the Wall. Have the years made you more innocent?”

“I’ve already said my piece, my Lord Hand.” He had flashed a dark look across the table, one meant to intimidate, feeling a growl in his throat. “My thoughts haven’t changed on the matter.” But knowing that Dany was still observing him, Jon had bent his head forward graciously. “I am indebted to you for resolving the situation with your sister, of course.”

“Yes … well. Certain things came to light. We were lucky.”

“Let us discuss topics a bit more entertaining,” Dany had said smoothly, a glance in Jon’s direction before she settled back on her food. “We all know you did a brave thing, Lord Tyrion.”

Tyrion had turned quiet then, letting Jorah and Missandei take over the conversation.

Jon got out of his bed and made his way to the basin at his corner table, where a mirror hung on the wall. He pushed his hair out of his face and stared at his reflection, at his scars. Davos had implied that Dany had seen them already, when he’d been nearly frozen. He didn’t think she would be alarmed to see such ugliness, but then Jon remembered Sansa’s first reaction to them. He frowned as the memory recalled her eventual fixation with them. He put his hand across the one in the middle of his torso, just under his breastbone, and an instant picture of Ser Alliser’s face filled his vision for a second. _For the watch_. He hadn’t thought of that night since his journey to Dragonstone, when it had plagued his dreams. Davos had been right, though. Being on Dragonstone, free from that weight, had allowed him to breathe again, however briefly. He thought of his swim in the ocean, his head breaking the surface, that first gasp for air so sweet, just as it had been when he’d been on the battlefield, buried under his men, and he’d broken through then, as well. Every time, he fought for this life. He wanted to keep on fighting for it and for those he loved. And he knew that he loved her. _The dead don't need_ _lovers. Only the living,_ Melisandre had told him.

Jon straightened his shoulders, making his decision. He splashed some water on his face, running wet fingers through his hair as he pulled the strands together, slipping them into their familiar knot at the back of his head. He began to bathe himself from the basin, dragging the cloth under his arms, around his body, preparing himself. He would go to her as clean as he could make himself.

When he’d finished his ablutions, he made his way to his chest and began to get dressed. It was early still, everyone having retired to their beds shortly after supper’s end. There wasn’t much to do on a boat and it had been an exhausting jaunt from Eastwatch to King’s Landing, from King’s Landing to Dragonstone, and from there, to gather supplies once more and make their plans before leaving for Winterfell. They were all tired. Except for Jon.

He left his room, closing the door softly then scanning the small hallway before he made his way forward. He was nervous, but he was also determined. This felt right. She had shown him who she truly was and Jon wanted to respond in kind. To show her what she meant to him, what she had done for him.

Jon hadn’t gone far before he was stood outside of her door. He took a soldiering breath, a part of him unable to believe he was really doing this, and he knocked before he could talk himself out of it, a momentary shame stealing over him before the door suddenly opened. And then there she was, the surprise in her face quickly turning to expectation.

Jon locked eyes with her, imparting everything he felt in a single look.

Daenerys stepped aside and Jon felt that thrill leap inside of him as he stepped over the threshold, feeling as if he were in a dream yet holding her gaze as he closed the door.

“Jon.”

Her voice punctured the air and Jon was back here, this time and space real, the dreamlike moment dispersed, and then his mouth was on hers and fire rushed through him. She kissed him back, her hands quick to wrap around his neck, a needy moan ushered into his mouth and then Jon was holding her, arms crossing at her back, her slight frame crushed to his and before he could control himself, he picked her up, sliding hands under her legs to wrap them around his waist. He began walking them towards her bed, his steps sure. Jon was so hard for her, just the mere thought of being inside of her had him shaking. He wanted to give himself over to this woman, let her see him. A hot tongue was inside his mouth and Jon wanted to inhale it, to feed on the power that coursed from her. Their kiss grew wilder until her moans turned to a fight for breath.

“Jon!” she gasped as she ripped her mouth away. “Stop. I need to feel you. Take these off.” She began tugging at his buckle, groaning in frustration when it wouldn’t slip free, and he quickly put her back down to the ground so they could both work on them together. The thrill of being so close to her combined with being able to touch her skin, her body, had Jon vibrating, his fingers tight as he lifted his brigandine over his head, Dany dragging it away and dropping it to the ground. As soon as the weight was off of him, Jon dropped to his knees before her, circling his arms around her bum so he could press his forehead to her stomach and breathe her in.

“Jon, help me with this,” she cried, and then Jon was sliding up the skirt of her dress, her shift, until he was able to find that holy place, his mouth over the delicate silk of her smallclothes to absorb more of her heat.

“I want you,” she groaned and the sound of it cut right through him. Jon looked up into her face as she peered down at him, and it was true, she did, she did want him. And there was nothing wrong with it.

“You have me,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger, but the next chapter will probably be entirely boatsex, for those wanting to avoid it. I won't take a month to knock that one out, though, and should be back to a regular schedule.
> 
> One of my favorite, early scenes of the show was Theon taking over WF and the murder of Ser Rodderick. Man, its so intense, and Bran's screams get me every time. What a powerful scene. I didn't want Bran to forget it. His entire life changed after that. Theon making him leave brought him to his destiny.
> 
> Also, Jorah telling Dany - "after I have forgotten my mother's face" - was another powerful moment that made me love Jorah so hard. Ah, good times.
> 
> Arya and Sansa? I throw up my hands. I did my best. This chapter wasn't all that I'd hoped, but I've got to move forward. It always pissed me off when Sansa tells LF that Jon had never asked for her opinion, why would he suddenly start - Jon asked for and acknowledged her opinion multiple times. "What do you think? what should we do differently?" I mean, what the hell did the guy have to do to? 
> 
> Sayonara, Littlefinger. Writing you was fun while it lasted.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait, everyone.
> 
> Just putting this out there as a reminder - this story isn't about kink, this story is about trauma, and the many ways we process it, often to our detriment.
> 
> Also, thanks to mimreads for her beta on the first part of this chapter.

**xxvii.**

He could barely breathe.

Kneeling before her, Jon curled fingers around a slender ankle to slide off her boot. Her hands were in his hair, on his neck, her cries for him urgent and raw. She was sat on the bed as he moved to undress her, the two of them having already worked together to strip his clothes off. To be nude before Daenerys Targaryen was to be seen, her eyes raking over his body in a manner that left him feeling vulnerable and powerful at once.

“Jon, hurry,” she said, breathless.

He peeled her hose off her leg, a hand curved around the soft swell of her calf as he followed the silk to her ankle. Her skin was so soft and the more of it he could touch, the more his need turned wild, a tremor in his arms and hands still as he fought to restrain himself from ripping at her clothes to get to her as quickly as he could. But she was a queen – his queen – and he would treat her as such. Jon closed his eyes to calm himself, to rein in his fervency as he took another deep breath.

Daenerys was working at the small fastenings inside the slit of her bodice, trying to disconnect them so she could break free from it. Jon had shucked her other leg of its silk and was sliding his hands under the pleats of her skirt, riding them up her thighs as she squealed in frustration.

“I feel sewn into this bloody thing,” she swore, finally managing to unhook the eyelet nearest her breast.

“Here, let me help,” he offered, his voice rough as he worked the bottom clasp in the soft felt that sat above her skirt. There was a long row of them, keeping the bodice sealed tight; suggesting that Daenerys was a prize so worthy the very unveiling of her could not be rushed. They met in the middle, the top finally loosening so that she might wrangle herself out of it. Jon pushed back on the padded hoops of the shoulders and between the two of them they pulled Dany’s arms free. She stood up quickly, her hands at her back, and then the skirt dropped to the floor. Jon leaned back and took hold of her hips, his eyes trailing upward to note that her eyes had gone dark with the desire that smoldered there. She put her hands to the front of her corset and began the laborious task of unhooking another row and Jon joined in again, so desperate to finally see all of her.

“If only you’d come a bit later, after Missandei had removed all this,” she whined. Jon couldn’t tell if she was teasing or not, her face reflecting only her need as the corset was released at last and tossed to the floor. Jon rose up, plucking at the thin strands of her shift as he slid them off her shoulders and let it, too, drop to the floor until they both stood together, facing each other. Before he could even hold her, Daenerys was climbing backwards onto the bed, shifting onto her knees as she sidled away from the edge while clutching his wrist, drawing him to her. Jon followed her, amazed that he was here at all, that he was caressing her with his own hands, trailing them up her hips to the sinewy musculature of her back. She was strong and lithe and she canted her hips towards him, the lace of her smallclothes brushing against his hard want.

“Dany,” he uttered softly and then her mouth was on his again and Jon felt the heat of her swamp him as they clung to each other, his skin on fire. Jon ran his hand up the softness of her belly as they kissed; along her ribs, feeling the deep indentations into her flesh from the bones of her corset before finally cupping a glorious breast. Again, he wanted to rush through this, wanted to be inside her already, but Jon pulled his head back to take another breath and slow down. She worried her brows as she looked upon him.

“I want to – lay back,” he suggested. Jon wanted to taste her, to kiss her there.

“Alright,” she breathed, leaning back against the pillows and stretching out her legs. Immediately, he was gripping her calf again, careful not to bruise her, as he eased his body lower down the bed, pressing his lips to the side of a knee. He heard her moan and it filled him with such gratitude, left him feeling more like a man than he had in months. He stroked his hands up her thighs again until they touched lace, and then he was pulling them off, seeing all of her at last, every inch of her. Jon felt her fingers in his hair again, along the crown of his head, as he raised himself over the spread of her thighs. She glistened for him, the candlelight bathing her body in copper hues as the silvery hair above her sex shone like diamonds. When he put his mouth on her she startled, a squeak of surprise uttered into the room, but then her thighs quickly wrapped around him, enveloping him like a mother’s embrace. And Jon suckled and fed on that incredible heat, drawing it into his body until he could feel every point inside of him lit up, the darkness he’d held for so long blasted through. She had given him life and Jon wanted to return it, his tongue working assidiuously to deliver her pleasure. To hear her soft gasps, feel her thrusts into his mouth as she held onto him still, had Jon’s cock so hard it felt divorced from the rest of him, the beating in his ears so loud his head rang.

“Jon,” she groaned as he licked her from slit to button, sucking her swollen bits until she screamed, with her thrusts now rampant and desperate. Jon slid his arms under her thighs and stroked his hands up her belly, kept going until he clutched both breasts, never letting up from his attention on her cunt. He pushed up with his shoulders until her legs opened wider and he could split her flesh over that nub, could cover it with his mouth until his hot breaths had her so wet she trickled down into his throat. Jon gorged on her, his groans coming as freely as hers now, the flickering of his tongue moving faster as she called his name, begging him, needing him, and then he was inside her, her taste overwhelming him until he imagined his very brain was on fire, too.

“Jon!” she cried once more, before plastering her sex to his lips, her hands pressed to the back of his head as she gave her final thrusts, and Jon holding on, drinking in all the life she deigned to give him. Everything else had fallen away, and there was only this moment, this space between her legs an altar where he could worship.

When her body dropped to the covers, he realized how far she’d been thrusting upwards, his chest well off the bed as she fell away from him. Daenerys raised herself up anchoring her elbows to the bed, her mouth agape.

“What was that?” she gasped.

Jon froze, thinking he’d done something wrong. “Did you not – didn’t you like it?” he questioned, for it had certainly seemed that she had.

She grinned at him, a winded chuckle escaping her. “Of course I liked it. That was just … not what I had expected.”

He didn’t know what to think of that and so he sat up as she pulled her knees to her chest. Daenerys held out a hand towards him and in an instant, Jon saw that moment replaying, of her atop Drogon again reaching down to lift him up.

“Come. Sit up here with me,” she commanded. She slid to one side as Jon moved to lay himself in the spot she’d just been, his back against the pillows while she draped herself over his body, her breasts pressed against his scars. She ran her fingers up his side, tickling him with their feather-light touch, but his body responded to her so fiercely he was trembling once more. He forced himself to grow calm, to be patient for her.

“What other surprises await me, Jon Snow?” she asked him in a tender voice, before raising her body up to kiss him. Jon held her face, lost in the sensuousness of being surrounded by Daenerys Targaryen. He wanted her so badly, and that desire sprung out of him in fits and starts, his leg jerking as she slipped her tongue in his mouth for him to feast on. He wouldn’t be able to hold on for much longer and in the next beat, he had flipped her to her back, his knees pressing her legs open so he could fall between them. His kisses were desperate and messy, his patience having disappeared, and as Jon forced himself to stop again, to take another heavy breath and see her, truly see her, her eyes shone back at him with as much love as he felt in his heart. It seemed uncanny, that this woman could want him, that she’d found something worthy in him. Jon’s head spun with the magnitude of it. He wanted to be that person for her.

When he leaned down to kiss her again, he moved his hips up and then he was inside her, and suddenly the world clicked into place. It felt like he’d always belonged here, the warmth rolling through him, a billowing fire like the breath of her dragons. Jon had never been so warm in all his life. He moved in her, and Dany’s moan reverberated through him, buffeted him, a blessing from her lips that anointed him more than the Lord of Light had ever done for him. He was a man, flesh and bone. He was here. Jon hadn’t come back wrong. He’d found his purpose. He was meant to find her.

Jon kissed her blazing skin and melted into her.

* * *

“You’ve talents that would make a Dothraki maiden blush, Jon Snow.”

“What?”

He craned his neck to take in her face, to see if she was teasing him again. Dany raised her head from his chest and smiled lazily, her contentment so utterly conveyed that he expected to see a tail swish behind her. He could still feel the heat of her under his skin, his body attuned to where her sex pressed against his thigh as she languished across him.

“I was properly informed, of course, but I was unprepared for the … sheer dedication, shall we say, to such service.”

Jon pushed himself up a bit straighter, so his shoulders were against the wood of the headboard. Dany shifted with him, her eyes still full of amusement.

“Informed?” he asked, with a creeping concern.

Her laugh was gusty as she watched his face. “Well, perhaps I should be clear. You _have_ made a Dothraki maiden blush. Ornela was quite taken with your ability to pleasure her.”

Jon felt his stomach drop, the air sapped from his lungs as he struggled to explain. “I – I am so – Dany, I meant no –” He shook his head, his embarrassment burning his face. “I don’t know what to say. I’ve displeased you?”

She wrinkled her brows as she watched his reaction. “Why should I be displeased? I had no claim to you, Jon Snow. I _am_ the queen, however, and surely I would know what goes on in my own keep. She said you were very tender with her.”

Jon sucked in a breath. “She’s a sweet girl. I – It hadn’t been my intention or anything. I was –” Jon stopped talking, not sure he even wanted to continue.

“Ornela is no longer shy, particularly when she wants something,” Dany said with a knowing smirk. “And I imagine she was quite keen to show you how much she wanted you.”

Jon kept his eyes on hers. “She was rather adamant.”

Dany ran a finger alongside one of his scars, making him shiver. “It’s obvious you’re no ordinary man, Jon Snow.”

He quickly put his hand over hers, pulling it higher to the center of his chest. “Yet I feel most ordinary next to you.”

She glanced up at him demurely before her eyes returned to his scars, clearly not done with them. “This is what the red priestess was talking about, isn’t it?”

A quiver of fear raced up his back. “What red priestess?”

Dany rolled her body on top of him, so that her arms crossed at his chest and she could meet his eyes, her chin resting on the tops of her hands. “A follower of the Lord of Light from Asshai. She came to Dragonstone shortly after I arrived there and had many things to say about you. This was why we invited you, upon Tyrion’s insistence.”

“What did she say about me?” The fear had tightened into a knot in his belly.

“She told us that you had united the wildlings with the Northmen, that you had allowed them through to the other side of the Wall to protect them. She also said I should summon you and let you tell us of the many things you’ve seen with your own eyes. Of the things that had happened to you.” Daenerys lifted a finger and traced a nail lazily around the seam over his heart. “It appears the Lord of Light has an interest in you, as well.”

“Why do you say that?” It suddenly occurred to him that it would make sense that such a god would cast an eye to a woman who walked through fire.

“The priestess foretold of the long night. I didn’t know what she meant by it at the time. She said the princess who was promised would bring the dawn. I thought she was trying to flatter me with her talk of a prophecy. But she said you also had a part to play. She seemed to know much about you. With a scar like this,” she jabbed at the wound, “a man does not simply get up and go on with his life. With a scar like this, a man’s life would surely drain right out of him. And yet, here you are – your flesh warm, your heart beating madly under my touch.” She raised her eyes to him again, a probing look that made him want to tell her everything.

“I believe you met with the same woman who counseled Stannis,” he said carefully.

“Yes, Lord Varys was quick to point that out. I take it she wasn’t around when he fell?”

He shook his head, their eyes still locked together. “No. She’d returned. To Castle Black. Ser Davos was with me at the time, trying to get me to bring Stannis and his army some aid. I’d … I’d already let the freefolk through to lands south of the Wall. But I was unsuccessful in convincing all the men of the Night’s Watch that it was necessary, what I did. That our enemies had a right to live as much as the rest of us, that we were condemning women and children by the thousands to a fate worse than death.”

Dany studied him with a sharp glint in her gaze and he felt again that need to be absolved, to let all of it out, tell her everything. She brushed a hand across another wound. “And so they did this to you?”

Jon’s throat felt tight, his answer lodged there like a brick. It was such a failure for him, that he was struck down and murdered by his own men. What might she think of him? He nodded, hanging his head.

“So it wasn’t a figure of speech. Ser Davos was exactly right, you took a knife for your people,” she said, rubbing her finger over his heart again. “Did the priestess have something to do with you … _recovering_ from such wounds?”

“Aye.” He caught her hand and held it there, the two of them feeling his heart pound. “She … she brought me back.”

“Jon Snow, you become more interesting every day.”

He narrowed his eyes at her, not sure what to make of her lack of alarm. “You’re alright with that? You don’t fear it?”

“What should I fear?”

“That I’m an abomination?”

She raised herself up with her palms pressed to the bed and moved over him, until she sat straddled across his pelvis, splaying her fingers to his chest.

“You’re no abomination. You are a wonder.” She arched an eyebrow. “You sound like a man worthy of a prophecy, one who comes back from death by the grace of her god.”

“Right.” He smiled shyly in spite of the emotion in her voice. “I’m afraid I heard it, too. Only it was the prince who was promised. She likes to peddle that one quite a bit. Stannis also received an earful.”

“I don’t care about Stannis. I care about you.”

He glanced up and was caught by those violet eyes again, as if they peered into his soul, could see all his secrets. “And I care about you,” he admitted, afraid to say more.

Dany straightened up, scooting her body down until her cunt sat on him and Jon felt hot sparks shoot through his groin, a growl crawling into his throat. He wanted her again.

“I like being in the company of extraordinary people,” she said. “And there are so few of them.” The power of her words warmed him. He wanted to be extraordinary for her. Dany took her hand off his heart and slid her fingers slowly down the rest of him, not put off by the gruesome carvings. “And the men responsible for this? What happened to them?”

“I executed them,” he said.

She looked up at him and a wicked smile graced the side of her mouth. “Good.”

“One of them was a young boy,” he breathed raggedly, the guilt flooding him anew as he watched her face. “Younger than I was when I left for the Wall.”

Her eyebrows met together in the center of her forehead for a moment, like caterpillars at play, but then she shook her head to toss away her thoughts. “You are an honourable man, Jon Snow. You did what was right. What was necessary. Only death pays for life. And they owed you theirs.”

Jon felt another weight lift from his heart at her words, to hear her make such a pronouncement as if there could be no question, no doubt. He admired her ability to feel so sure of herself. Dany’s hands continued to explore him and he let her, let her touch what she wanted. Once they were laid flat to his belly, she moved her body down again, so that her bottom rested right above his knees. Jon straightened up so he could be closer to her, when she suddenly put her palm to his left thigh, where the marks from his lashings were still reddened and bruised, a roughened scab left behind from his last flogging. He jolted, heat suffusing his face and body.

“And what of this?” she asked plainly. “Did your men of the Night’s Watch do this as well?” She looked at him with another raise of her eyebrow, as if she knew the answer already.

“Erm, I – no.” He'd been so caught up in her, he'd forgotten all about his depravity.

“So how did these bruises get here?” Her fingers ghosted over the purplish and black welts again, rubbing the scab tenderly with a thumb. Jon dropped his hand over hers to slide it away. “They look fairly recent,” she noted. “Was this during your fight with the dead?”

The shame of his purging threatened to overtake him again, but Jon didn’t want to lie to this woman. After what she had done for him, she deserved the truth.

“I did it,” he confessed.

Those eyes flitted across his face, and he took a deep breath under the weight of her scrutiny.

“Was this an accident?” She tilted her head and regarded him with curiosity.

“No. It was self-inflicted.” He wouldn’t hide himself.

“Why?”

She didn’t appear disgusted, merely inquisitive.

“You are a queen, Dany,” he began. “Have you never wrestled with a decision before? Knowing that it would affect all of your people by the thousands? How do you manage such responsibility, all that weight on your shoulders?”

She straightened her shoulders, her chin high. “I have my advisors, I consult them. I listen. But ultimately, I know that what feels right is the path I should take. If we determine what is best for the people, especially those who have been oppressed, then we cannot be wrong.”

“But _how_ do you truly know?” He looked down at his belly. “I thought I knew what was right once. And then I was stabbed to death for being a traitor.”

Dany cupped the side of his face, her expression righteous. “No one will ever do such a thing to you again, Jon Snow. I won’t allow it.” She dropped her gaze to his thigh, stroking the marks again. “But that doesn’t explain this. How does ruling make you … _why_ would you do this to yourself?”

He looked off to the side of the room, the small window in her cabin giving a glimpse to the black of the ocean outside, candles flickering on either side while the wax dripped down, leaving an encrusted trail along the wood that reminded him of his room in Winterfell. He didn’t know how to answer her in a manner that didn’t make him feel weak.

“The doubt. The incessant voices questioning everything I do. It helps to quiet them, sometimes, when they are too great.” He shrugged his shoulders as she stared at him, feeling uneasy under her inspection once more. “It’s really nothing. I’ve been in several battles, remember? And I was murdered,” he chuckled. “Compared to that madness, this is just … I barely even feel it. A simple distraction, really. But one that is controlled.”

Dany cast a glance across his body again, her attention drawn to other wounds. Her sight landed on the scar from Karl Tanner’s blade at the top of his thigh, where Sansa had once stroked it with her finger the way that Dany was doing currently.

“Do you grow used to it?” she asked after a moment, a hushed quality to her voice. “The pain?”

“I suppose so. The way that one becomes dulled to the violence of battle after a while,” he considered. “The brutality of it. I don’t wish for it to become routine, for it to become a comfortable place to live. But I … I do realize it’s a … a heightened place that I return to time and again. One where I perform well. And when you’re in the midst of that fighting, the chaos around you, the screams of the dying, and your heart beating, blood rushing madly, it’s as if you can do anything. The pain is a reminder for me. I know it. I understand it.”

She seemed to absorb his words thoughtfully, her brows still strung together. “And what is this from, exactly?” she asked, her tone a demand as she rubbed at the bruises. She seemed keen to understand. “A whip? A blade? What instrument have you used to tear at your beautiful skin?”

“Just my belt,” he told her with ease, hoping to assuage her interest by boring her with mundane details. “To clear my mind at night.” As if it was no more an aid to sleep than a warm cup of milk.

“I see.” She was quiet after that and Jon didn’t want to speak aloud, to disrupt her thoughts, however unfavorable they might be towards him.

“You are an unending source of surprises, Jon Snow,” she breathed as she dropped her head down and pressed her face to his torso, kissing one of his scars. Jon wanted to hold her, to put the attention back on her, but he slipped his palm to the back of her head, cradling her skull as she kissed another wound.

“Dany, come up here,” he begged.

She looked up at him, reaching for his face to stroke his cheek. “Perhaps you should come down here,” she whispered, sliding down further so she could kiss the scar on his thigh, electrifying him until he was hard for her again. Then Dany rolled off of him and onto her back.

Jon moved down with her and kissed the supple flesh below her breasts, eager to please her. He felt her fingers in his hair once more as he began his descent down her belly, leaving sweet kisses along the way while she moaned his name.

* * *

Arya stalked the castle, hanging about the halls as she inspected each of the guards she came upon. It was hard to tell them apart, sometimes, other than the size of their bodies. Their helmets covered their hair, so it wasn’t immediately apparent which ones were blondes. She’d been hunting for Sansa for the last half hour and it eventually occurred to Arya that her sister might have met with her mystery guard in Jon’s room again.

It had only been a few hours since their conversation atop the battlements, where Arya had felt a reconnection to Sansa as they spoke of Father. She’d been duly impressed with the way her sister had handled Littlefinger’s trial. She shouldn’t have doubted her, she realized that now. A growing appreciation for her brother ran through her as she made long strides down the corridor, thankful for Bran’s involvement to keep them all in communication with each other. When Sansa had come to question him about a strange detail Littlefinger had shared with her, Arya had been in the room with him already. Oddly, her sister had asked about their Aunt Lysa. As Arya had listened to them both volley back and forth their pieces of information, a picture began to form for them all. Bran had been able to vividly recount their father’s last conversation with Littlefinger, how he’d expected that treacherous whoremonger to get him the Commander of the Goldcloaks to back him as he sought to arrest the Queen. It broke Arya’s heart to hear it. Her father had been a good man, an honest man, but he’d been too trusting in people’s sense of decency. She knew now the world didn’t work like that.

As she came down the corridor to Jon’s room, she saw the hall was empty, its hushed silence suddenly magnified as she listened for any disturbance. She crept to the door and pressed her ear to the wood, hoping she wouldn’t hear anything untoward.

She did hear something, however. It was faint, but it sounded like weeping. Arya reared her head back, staring at the door in puzzlement. What was going on?

On a whim, she knocked. There was no answer. Arya pressed her ear to the wood again but the crying had stopped.

“Hello?” she called. Without thinking on it, she put her hand to the knob and turned. Surprisingly, it opened. Arya pushed the door inwards and stepped inside.

“Sansa?”

Her sister sat on their brother’s bed, her back to the door but her eyes wide as she gaped at Arya over her shoulder. Tears left glistened tracks down her face, her skin pale.

“Arya, what is it? What do you need?”

“I’ve been looking for you,” Arya confessed. “What are you doing in here?”

“Nothing, I just – I wanted somewhere quiet,” she said, turning back to stare down at her lap.

Arya shut the door behind her and came into the room, walking around Jon’s bed to stand by her sister, her hand resting on Needle’s hilt. Sansa held a lace kerchief scrunched in her hand, her gloves off. The bed covers looked rumpled, as if she’d been laying on them.

“What’s wrong with your own chambers? Surely it’s quiet in there, too?”

“I just needed –” and then Sansa’s shoulders began to shake as she folded over into a new surge of weeping. Arya was stunned. She’d not seen Sansa cry in such a long time that she found these recent bouts of lachrymosity to be most disconcerting.

She sat on the bed next to her sister, trying to glean the nature of Sansa’s sadness. The Starks had come away victorious, Sansa most of all, there seemed no need of this.

“Why are you crying?” She thought of her sister’s reaction to Jon’s troubles the week before. “Is it Jon? Do you miss our brother?” Arya put a comforting hand on Sansa’s back.

“It’s just that … I was with him for a long time,” her sister gasped. “He did save my life, in his own way. On more than one occasion.”

Arya was confused. “Jon?”

Sansa shook her head, wadding her handkerchief into her fists as she dabbed at her eyes. “No. I’m not talking of Jon.”

Arya frowned. “You mean Littlefinger?” Now she truly was shocked. Why on earth would her sister cry over the death of that weasel? “He was trying to bring down our house. You said so yourself. You were masterful, the way you laid it out for everyone, made them all see what he’d been doing. He deserved what he got, Sansa.” She had been only too happy to play executioner.

Sansa nodded her head vigorously this time, agreeing with her. “I kno-know,” she got out before bursting into a fresh spring of tears.

“Then why are you upset?”

Her sister attempted to calm herself, wiping her nose as she straightened her shoulders, looking towards the empty hearth as she contemplated Arya’s question.

“He was … a part of me. He took care of me for many years. I can’t forget that. Even knowing all the things he did which put me in danger. The horrors I went through with Ramsey,” there was a catch in her voice as she tried to get through her speech. “I think, perhaps, it’s possible he didn’t know about Ramsay after all. That he did love me. And now it’s so strange. Knowing that I’ll never talk to him again, never see him looking at me like a proud father.” She looked at Arya then, her grief plain in her eyes. “Is it possible to miss a monster?”

Arya’s thoughts went instantly to Jaqen H’ghar. She had cared for him, missed him even, remembering how she had wept when she thought he was dead, all while knowing that he would not have blinked an eye had the waif killed her as intended.

“Yes,” she told her sister, grabbing Sansa’s hand in solidarity.

Tears brimmed in Sansa’s eyes again, but she held onto Arya, her misery so sharp still. “I do miss Jon,” she whispered, her bottom lip trembling. “I wish he’d come home.” Her voice was so small, that the years rolled back for Arya as she recalled her sister as a young girl, the many times she’d been cruel to her. She squeezed her sister’s hand tighter.

“He’ll be back soon. You read his words. He’s coming with the Dragon Queen and her armies. We’ll see him in little more than a fortnight.”

“And what will happen when he gets here?” her sister worried. “He’s no longer a king, Jon gave up his crown. His people will be disappointed in him. She made him warden, as if that means anything. She’s not the queen of the seven kingdoms yet, only ours, apparently. I’m concerned that Jon’s bargain might blow up in his face.”

“It won’t. Anyone has any complaints for our brother, they go through me first,” Arya declared.

“It’s not that simple, Arya. You can’t execute everyone that disagrees with Jon’s decisions. We need to be careful. He’ll need our support, especially, but …” She bit at her bottom lip.

“What? What is it?”

“We know barely anything about this woman, other than she’s a Targaryen, and one with dragons, at that. I don’t trust her. She’ll want to use Jon, use our armies, to get the Iron Throne. And look at what’s happened to all the other houses who backed her. The last of the Tyrells is gone, thanks to her. That Dornish woman who murdered their prince and seized power – I hear she’s in the black cells of the Red Keep, captured by Theon’s uncle, her daughters killed. Why would Daenerys Targaryen even make an alliance with a usurper like that? She sounds as bad as Cersei.”

“But surely Jon wouldn’t bend the knee if he didn’t see the need for it?” Arya said. “You know Jon. He’ll do whatever it takes to protect us.”

“Yes, but that’s the problem, isn’t it?” Sansa closed her eyes and shook her head again. “Jon rushes into things without thinking everything through. He wanted to protect Rickon, too, and almost died on the field because of it.” She sighed heavily. “I can’t believe he went north of the Wall. He keeps risking his life as if it’s so meaningless a thing he should toss it away at every opportunity that comes along. As if he doesn’t have people here who need him, who want to see him returned home where he belongs.”

Arya wondered again at the bond between Sansa and Jon, imagining what this new incarnation of their relationship might look like amongst their family, so deeply forged while Arya had been away. She felt a strange crawling in her gut, her jealousy waning yet a thrill burgeoning, knowing she would see this reunion soon and could observe it closely.

“Jon would never turn his back on his family,” she said, believing it with all her heart.

Sansa met her eyes. “Not intentionally, no. But Jon has been through a lot. He can be … susceptible.”

Arya narrowed her gaze. “What does that mean?”

Her sister sighed again and looked away. “I don’t know. I’m just tired.” She glanced around the room, lost in her thoughts. “I’ll continue to worry about him until he’s home. Until I can talk to him myself.”

Arya squeezed her sister’s hand again. “Me, too,” she said. A sudden concern had crept into her mind, that perhaps a woman who could ride dragons might not be all Arya had hoped. Visenya had been ruthless, too, she recalled from the stories she used to read. But then so was she. Ruthlessness had allowed her to live.

She trusted Sansa, had seen her sister defend their house and Winterfell from those who sought to destroy the Starks. She thought of the last time she’d laid eyes on Jon, and tried to picture what he would be like when she saw him again, with all the things that Bran and Sansa had described.

It would be an interesting homecoming.

* * *

“And so, we shall stay a night in White Harbor once we arrive, Your Grace. It will take a full day for the Unsullied to disembark with all the horses and deploy our supplies for the next morning. I’ve already seen to our lodgings, so you’ll have at least one comfortable night in a proper bed, before we begin our arduous journey to Winterfell.”

Tyrion sat on the queen’s right side at the table. Jon sat at the other end, across from Daenerys, and was only too grateful for the distance while Tyrion and Varys commandeered the discussion. He kept his focus on his food as he ate, feeling Dany’s eyes on him every now and again and trying not to react to her.

The morning had been awkward enough.

Jon had been portside when Davos joined him, the widening pools of light across the ocean’s surface reflecting the early hour of the morn, but the sun not quite arisen. Davos had kept his gaze to the water, a smirk on his face, as he addressed him.

“I’d ask you how your evening went, my lord, but I would say everyone on this ship has a pretty clear answer to that. _Someone_ kept his queen in high spirits last night.”

“Then let us refrain from ever speaking of it.” He didn’t want to sully his night with Dany by discussing it aloud. He didn’t want anyone intruding into the little bubble they’d surrounded themselves with just yet, the feel of waking up with her in his arms still present. He’d slipped out of her bed while it had been dark outside, discreetly making his way up on deck to give her some rest and avoid a situation where her guards or Tyrion might witness him leaving her cabin.

“Well, then,” Davos muttered, “it must have been quite an evening, indeed.”

Ser Davos was simply happy for Jon, he knew that, but it still felt disrespectful, and so he had quickly changed the subject to their travels ahead.

But seated at the table, surrounded by her council, Davos and Brienne on either side of him, Jon felt more eyes aimed at him besides Daenerys’s insistent gaze. It had become quickly apparent when they sat down for dinner that everyone knew. Ser Jorah hadn’t been able to look in his direction once during the evening, nor had much to say. Varys could barely contain his delight. Jon’s attention was only half on the conversation, anyway, the rest on merely getting through dinner, chewing the meat in his mouth with such commitment it had lost all flavor from being so roundly destroyed.

“And what would you Northerners say about that, my lord?”

Jon heard the table go quiet. He looked up to see all of their faces staring back at him. He blinked back at Varys and then Tyrion, their expressions a study in contrast, from amused to irritable. At the other end of the table, Dany was doing her best to stifle her grin. Jon gulped down the lump on his tongue.

“Forgive me, Lord Varys, I missed the first part of the question. What would Northerners have to say about what?”

“About thousands of Lannister soldiers sitting outside the walls of Winterfell,” Tyrion grumbled. “Do you anticipate any unrest once they arrive?”

“They are coming to unite with us to defeat a powerful evil, so no, I don’t. I think we will all be too busy preparing for battle. My sister has been hard at work making sure that the North is ready.”

“Ah, yes, your sister. Sansa’s been ruling while you’ve been gone and doing a fine job, I’m sure,” Tyrion went on, his wine goblet cupped firmly in hand. “This does pose an interesting question of hierarchy, however, now that you have pledged yourself to our queen, my lord. Will she remain the Lady of Winterfell? After all, your brother has returned, and as he’s your father’s heir it would be expected he take over. Then again, a Warden of the North who is not also head of the region’s seat of power has only been a recent phenomenon, started when my father appointed Roose Bolton. So you will command the North’s armies for our queen, and Brandon Stark will oversee its people? What will that look like? The last time you saw your brother he was a child, and quite comatose, as I recall. Can we count on him to support our queen once she takes the throne?”

Jon took a pause as he eyed Tyrion, wondering at his game. He was being purposely cutting, diminishing Jon by indirectly addressing his status as a bastard in front of Daenerys.

“I don’t believe Bran will be stepping into that role,” he answered with some hesitance. He wasn’t exactly sure what was likely to be the outcome, as he’d not yet heard a reply from Sansa to his last raven. It had come across quite clearly, however, that Bran’s abilities would be needed for their fight, and that his focus was likely drawn to something more fantastical than politics. “Sansa will continue on as Lady of Winterfell when I return.”

“And do you and your sister agree on all political matters?” Varys asked, his eyes wide in that faux innocence that he so liked to mimic.

Jon glanced to Davos before answering, seeing Davos give him a hard look back. He caught Lady Brienne also watching him cautiously. “Not always,” he admitted. “But that is a good thing. We … complement each other in many ways, coming at any problem from opposing viewpoints in order to arrive at a resolution that’s more effective in its leverage.”

“Lady Sansa despises my sister almost as much as I do,” Tyrion replied. “What will she have to say about this temporary alliance to defeat the dead? As you’re no longer her king, she doesn’t necessarily have to listen to you, does she?”

Jon’s chuckle was without mirth, an acid taste in his mouth as he felt a sudden urge to say something spiteful. He looked down the table to find Dany looking back at him with some expectation.

“Are you attempting to make me regret my decision, Lord Tyrion?” he said gaily, his smile tight.

Tyrion set down his glass, his eyebrows shot high in his forehead. “No, of course not. But I feel it is important we know what we are heading into. It is through your leadership that Northerners have come to accept the wildlings. But what of the Dothraki? The Unsullied soldiers marching to their homes? We still need the North to listen to _you_. We want our queen to be welcomed, not feared.”

“She’s coming to save them,” Jon said, quoting Dany from their last meeting on Dragonstone. “Why would they fear her?” But Jon also knew on some level that many of the bannermen and their families that served the Starks would be resistant to outsiders. It was an unfortunate trait of his people, one which had been ingrained over hundreds of years, as they had surrendered their sons to the whims of countless kings for their petty wars.

“A little fear isn’t a bad thing,” Davos jumped in, addressing Tyrion. “As Stannis used to say, if they don’t fear you, they don’t follow you.”

“And how did that work out for Stannis?” Varys asked.

“For the most part, pretty well, Lord Varys,” Davos bounced back heartily. “I’m not saying the man didn’t make crucial mistakes at the end, but his men always respected him.” He held up his shortened fingers. “And they knew that he would dispense justice when it was required.” Davos nodded towards Jon, their eyes meeting. “Just as they know it of Jon Snow.”

“And what of his resurrection, Ser Davos? Do they know this of Jon Snow as well?”

All heads whipped towards Daenerys as she questioned Davos, something cunning in her gaze. Even Jon was thrown for a moment that she had brought such a thing out into the open. Varys looked aghast, his features molded in his shock as he looked back at Jon.

“I beg your pardon?” Tyrion appeared flustered as he gawked at Davos and then back to Daenerys.

But Davos didn’t let the confusion of the dinner guests rattle him. “They do, Your Grace. He was the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, after all. The truth had to come to light eventually.”

“Interesting choice of words,” Varys said. “And just how did such an event come to be?”

“Are you suggesting this man was one of the dead?” Tyrion balked, his grimace implying the idea was preposterous.

“Jon Snow would never lie about such a thing,” Lady Brienne suddenly spoke. “I believe his honour was made quite plain in the Dragon Pit before your sister, Lord Tyrion. If he says he died, then that’s what happened.” Her utter conviction made everyone pause, and Jon, too, was surprised by it. He had always seen her as his sister’s advocate.

“Wait. So you _were_ one of the dead?” Tyrion’s face fell into fear.

“Not one of _the_ dead, I was just … dead,” Jon explained, feeling acutely uncomfortable with the entire line of questioning.

“And yet, here you are,” Ser Jorah said, perking up.

“Yes. Here I am.”

“Well, you don’t appear to have been dead very long. And it certainly hasn’t … slowed you down any,” Tyrion added drolly, staring at his wine.

“We really don’t need to talk about it,” Jon said, glancing to Dany. She was still watching him with a curious intent, giving him pause. Had she wanted him to talk about it?

“I take it the Lady Melisandre was involved.” Varys directed his question to Davos, an unspoken understanding between them, by the looks on their faces.

Jon and Davos both nodded.

“Distraction, indeed,” he muttered as he returned his attention back to his food.

“Well, what a fascinating turn to this conversation,” Tyrion added, eyes wide. “You’ve been keeping things from us, Lord Snow. What must the North make of Ned Stark’s son, I wonder, who has come back from death to save them? That’s quite a story. Much better than the tales of a demon monkey.”

“What was it like?” Missandei asked suddenly. Jon looked up at her where she sat next to Dany.

“I’m sorry?”

“Death. What was it like?” All eyes turned to Jon once again and he felt his face grow hot as they studied him.

“Brief, thankfully,” he smiled, not eager to get into a metaphysical discourse. He picked up his glass to take a healthy gulp of his wine.

“That’s it? That’s all you can tell us?” Tyrion dropped his napkin by his dinner plate with some disappointment. “The greatest secret of life and you’d rather crack jokes? Are we not worthy enough to hear such truths, Jon Snow?”

Jon stood up. “I’m afraid I don’t have any truths to give you, my lord Hand. Now, forgive me, but I need to cut the evening short, as I have some letters to write before I retire to bed. Your Grace.” He bent his head in deference to her before acknowledging the others at the table. “My lords. My ladies.”

He left the dining room quickly, his thoughts on Dany and when she’d be likely be back in her cabin.

* * *

“Again,” she groaned. “Harder.”

Jon raised his hips from the bed, thrusting into her deeply while he held her by the waist. She cried out and he gripped her tighter, his gaze locked to her face, watching for every minute response she expressed. Her eyes were closed, mouth open to form a perfect circle from whence the trilling notes of her ecstasy climbed ever higher. It fed him, and Jon realized how starved he’d been, this connection so deep a need in him that he’d even sought it in his sister.

“Jon, kiss me,” she begged, and he sat up to hold her, breathing her in as their mouths met, tongues intertwining, his arms around her back as he moved with her, pressing her body down on his with waves of heat lapping through him as their flesh burned against each other.

He twisted them both until she fell back and he on top of her, never once breaking his rhythm as continued to thrust his hips, and Dany wrapped her legs around him, hooking her ankles at his back to goad him on with another groan.

“Don’t stop,” she cried as her moans escalated. Jon pounded into her, his breaths coming fast, and then he felt it spiraling up from behind his bollocks, felt Dany’s passion ratchet higher, and he swore he could witness flames leaping under the skin of her breasts, until they were both groaning aloud over the consistent slap of their bodies coming together.

“Dany,” he called and then it rushed through him, the fire consuming him, his head ablaze as he watched her cry out with such force, and her orgasm pushed him to his own, just seeing her writhe under him so wildly in her release.

He dropped his head to her chest after they both came, his panting as ragged as hers. After a moment, he slid out of her and moved to her side, his arm across her stomach to hold her. Jon had finished inside her, a tacit agreement between them to allow it, and as he glanced to her belly, his mind hovered over the possibility that his seed might take root. He glanced to her face and saw the deep contentment there, her smile so warm and sweet.

“Be prepared for some more stern looks at dinner, Jon Snow,” she grinned. She opened her eyes to regard him with a tilt of her head. “Who would have thought that the quiet and brooding king of the North would be so vocal in bed,” she teased.

He smiled shyly, feeling his face warm. “Right. It was a surprise to me, as well.”

She arched a perfectly crafted eyebrow. “You mean you aren’t usually like this?”

Jon chuckled, trying not to get embarrassed. “Well … in other situations, it was not ideal to let one’s passion ring out, shall we say.”

“And what manner of situations might these have been, I wonder,” she said, containing her glee in her eyes and the quirk of her lip.

“When you’re in a camp with other people a few feet away, you try to be as quiet as possible,” he explained, feeling his grin widen. “I got pretty good at it.”

“Oooh, making love under the stars, were we? No wonder Ornela and Zhiqi are so fond of you. You would fit right in with the Dothraki and their ways.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said, still smiling. “They don’t wear much.”

“And for that reason alone, I should like to see you cavort amongst them,” Dany teased again. She lifted a hand and brushed the back of it against his face, and Jon caught it so he could place a kiss in the center of her palm.

“Jon Snow and his many wildling lovers, now that is a tale I should like to hear,” she said in her mirth.

“Only one,” he returned.

Dany’s features softened. “And where is she now?”

“She died.”

She scooted herself up to prop her back against the pillows. “Did you love her?”

“Very much,” he admitted.

Her eyes filled with a sudden sadness. “I lost someone I loved, as well. I lost them both, actually.”

“Your husband?”

Dany glanced to her body, her brow heavy. “Yes. And my son.”

Jon dragged his hand to press it upon on her belly, feeling the pain she must have bore at the loss. “I’m so sorry, Dany. Did … did you get to hold him at least?”

Tears welled up quickly as her eyes widened in horror. “No,” she said in a high pitch. He took hold of her hand, threading his fingers with hers.

“My apologies. I shouldn’t have asked you such a thing. That is a deep wound.” He thought of Sansa for a brief second, of what it must have felt like for her to have a life growing inside her that was born from such terror and pain. And this woman had known the pain of losing her child. The act of bringing life into the world was a violent and terrifying thing, and Jon wondered again for the thousandth time what his own mother must have felt with his impending birth.

Dany shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut for a moment before opening them to look upon him with a returned smile. “It’s alright,” she said. “We were talking about you, however.” Her eyes narrowed as she contemplated him. “Did I upset you with my candid remark at dinner? I confess, I hadn’t been completely sure you would come to me tonight.”

Jon was surprised by that. “Of course I wasn’t upset. It’s your right to share the information with your council. I was perhaps a bit taken aback. I hope I didn’t come across as rude. I don’t like to talk about it much, I’m sorry.”

“No, don’t be sorry,” she insisted. Then Dany sat up with another change in her expression. She appeared hesitant to speak, strained in her consternation, and so Jon sat up with her.

“Jon, I … I’ve been thinking a lot about what you told me yesterday.” Her concern flowed into the lines of her mouth as she met his gaze. “About the things you do to yourself at night.”

“Yes?” She thought him disturbed. Jon swallowed hard for whatever she was about to tell him.

“Does it truly help you?”

Again, Jon was surprised by her response. “It does. It is as I said. The action calms my mind.”

She worried her lip with her teeth as she stared into his eyes, searching for something. He let her see him, shifting to cross his legs and face her. He rested his hand on her warm belly once more, stroking her soft skin.

“Would you … would you consider letting me watch you?”

Jon leaned back, shocked by her forthrightness. “Watch me?” He shook his head. “Why would you want to see that?”

“Because I want to know you,” she answered, her tone measured. “I want to know everything about you.”

The idea rattled him at first. It was a private thing, as private as taking one’s self in hand, he imagined. He didn’t even know what that might look like, to slip into that nothingness from such sweet release while it was being witnessed by another. What might he say in that state? Or do? He didn’t know.

“It seems like a strange thing to ask,” he said, not wanting to refuse his queen, but not convinced that she would really want to see it, either. He would be completely vulnerable to her. Were either of them ready for that?

“I suppose it is,” she agreed. “But I would ask it of you only because I know what kind of man you are, Jon Snow. The notion that you would seek out pain … I admit that I am confused by this. I merely want to understand.”

He took a deep breath. “Well, there’s not much to see, to be honest. The entire event takes but a handful of minutes.”

She studied him, her eyes burning into his, and Jon felt breathless under that gaze.

“And what if … what if I helped?” she asked plainly.

A laugh escaped him at the suggestion. Dany was no longer teasing, however, any gaiety scrubbed from her features, and Jon gaped back at her. “You’re serious?”

“Why not?”

He stared at her, unblinking. “You would _want_ to do that?” Sansa dropped into his mind once more, and Jon was reminded of how he had shamefully coerced his sister to do the very same that Dany was asking for, even knowing it had upset her.

“If it would help you, then yes.”

“I don’t – I don’t know what to say.”

“You’re not curious?” She gave him an encouraging smile then.

He chuckled shyly. “At this point, I suppose I am.”

“Does it need to be a special belt?”

“Well,” he thought of the preferred length of the belt that held Longclaw, left back in his cabin. “Not really. As long as it’s not too difficult to wield.”

She reached over to place her hand on his thigh, stroking a finger over his bruises. “What do you mean? Wield in what way?”

“Just that … well, you need the right length, and enough room, to get a good –” He raised an arm as though he would bring it down in a strike. Dany watched him with wide eyes and he paused. “I mean, to get the desired impact you need enough momentum, and so it requires a bit of space.”

“All right. So show me what you need.”

“You mean right now?” This woman was like no one he’d ever met.

She shrugged her shoulders. “If you’d like. Unless you’d like to do some other things.” Her crooked smile was fetching.

“I will do whatever you want, Dany,” he said, meaning every word.

Her grin turned wicked as she arched an eyebrow, those creatures so expressive in their own right. “Good. I should like to see what this does for you. I’m sure I have a belt in my wardrobe that would meet your requirements.”

And so it was that after several minutes of searching for the right accoutrement, Jon found himself laying back on the bed, his legs draped off the end so that his feet were on the floor, while Dany stood over him with her robe wrapped loosely about her, the strip of leather hanging from her grip long and enticing.

“You might need to wrap that once around your hand,” he suggested, propped up on his elbows, “to take up some of the slack. You want it to be a tight movement. You shouldn’t have to reach back too far.” He didn’t expect much of a blow from a woman of such small stature, even one as strong as Daenerys Stormborn. It was more in her bearing and attitude than any actual strength she possessed, he reasoned. But this would be an interesting experiment, to see how far she was willing to go.

Dany followed his instruction and looped it around once, testing the belt when she was done by whipping at the air in front of her. “Is that good?”

Jon laid back and raised his arms over his head, a sudden lust hitting him to see her standing there so, ready to dole out his punishment so sweetly. It was an odd sensation, and he opened his legs, availing himself to her as she came closer to him. He was still naked and he glanced down at his cock, leery of the belt she was about to swing.

“Um, make sure you’re careful with that, and keep clear of certain areas,” he advised her, even though they could both see he was quite hard in anticipation.

“Don’t worry, Jon Snow. I have a vested interest for _that_ piece of flesh to remain unharmed and unmolested … for now.”

Rather than being mystified or amused, however, Jon found that he was quite touched by her offer. As if she could detect how much he needed this purge, this ritual. That she would be the woman who would cleanse him of the sins he could not speak of to anyone had been his most fervent wish.

“Are you ready then?”

Jon opened his legs a bit wider, so she would be able to aim at her target. “Yes, Dany. I’m ready,” he said, conveying his encouragement with a small smile.

He thought he was prepared.

The belt came down and an instant later fire like he’d never known raced through him, the shock so severe he gasped for breath, just as he once had after being knocked several feet to the cold ground at Hardhome. His back rose off the bed, the pain burning him all up his leg as he choked on it.

 _“Fuuuuuck_ ,” he croaked, the profanity only fitting. His leg was pulsing like a giant’s heart and as he gawked at Dany, she stared back as shocked as him, a hand over her mouth.

“Oh, sorry,” she uttered from behind it. “Was that too hard?”

Jon sat up and looked around the room, before glancing to her waist. “Let me have the tie around your robe,” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just let me have it,” he breathed, and Dany’s hand flew to the knot at her belly, had it unhitched and pulled it from her waist to hand it to him, her robe falling open so he could see her breasts and her silvery mons. She didn’t seem to care and watched him curiously as he looped the sash to the hoops that hung from either side of her bedposts, running them through so that he might hold on to each end. He dragged himself back down to the edge of the bed and widened his legs again, eager to feel her power blaze through him a second time. His leg fucking burned and he needed more of it. Jon wrapped the ends of the sash around his hands and felt immediately galvanized, bolstering himself for another blistering crack of her belt.

“All right, Dany,” he told her steadily. “Give me all you’ve got.”

Her eyes were huge. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely sure.”

He sucked in a breath through his teeth just as she brought it down again on his other leg, and again, the fire rolled up from his thigh, into his balls and his cock, pain behind his eyes and searing his gut, his heart at a gallop, and Jon felt alive for the first time since the battle to free Winterfell. He quickly bit down on his bottom lip as he tried to stifle the groan that pushed into his throat.

She didn’t stop, but found a fleshy spot right atop his knee, and as the belt flashed across his sight he felt that explosion of heat while another screech scraped its way up into his mouth, blocked by his lips mashed inward. Jon’s body writhed under her command now, his hands clinging to the sash as he forced his legs to stay open.

The next cutting strike sent more sparks into his brain – she’d attacked the bruised side this time – and he rolled his hips towards her, wanting her to see how hard he was for her. He arched his back and his head dropped to the bed, another groan forcing its way out of him. She went on for several more minutes, and Jon was about to be lost to it when he heard a thump to the floor. He looked up to behold her while hissing from the pain. 

Dany was a sight. She practically glowed. Her desire was raw upon her features, a smoldering, voracious hunger there that had Jon gasping to see it. He imagined this was what it felt like to look into the face of her dragons as they lit up their gullets. Then Dany was crawling over him and Jon sat up, their mouths not meeting quite fast enough for either of them as he grabbed her shoulders and she wrapped her fingers into locks of his hair.

“What are you,” she cried, and Jon couldn’t answer her, dragging his mouth over the ticking pulse of her throat, along her collar bone, down to a breast until he could graze teeth over a nipple while Dany gripped the back of his head, keeping him there until he suckled her, wanted to drink from her, his hands plunging down over her arse until he could cradle each globe and slide her onto him.

She called his name as he entered her and Jon was in the belly of the beast now, the flames licking him, pain still shooting up from his legs, chaos swirling in his thoughts until he felt delirious. He flipped their bodies so he was on top, her legs sprawled under him, but then she quickly locked them at the small of his back and they moved at a furious pace together, Jon growling her name, a mantra that rumbled in his chest as he fucked her harder, wanting her to feel every fucking inch of him.

After a while, he heard a banging sound, realizing after a few minutes that it was her headboard against the wood of her cabin wall, the banging growing steadier and louder, but he didn’t care who heard, only cared about this, being inside her, showing her what she did to him. And when Dany lifted herself off the bed as she thrust upward and groaned into his arm, her teeth sinking into flesh, Jon lifted up one of her legs under the knee and carried it over his shoulder, his strength pressed to the hand on the bed as he held them up and then began pummeling into her with such frenzy and speed it felt as if his cock was being fused to her insides, their bodies molded together.

“Jon!” she screamed and then another shout, before he held her closer, her tits flushed bronze underneath him, and again he thought he could see her heart right through her skin. He opened his mouth to roar his answer, his climax rushing through him like a fire eating up the forest floor.

“Gods, Dany!” He continued pumping into her, but his breaths came harshly as he began to wind down, watching her face all the while as she appeared inundated with the pleasure that he’d given her, her moans turning to soft whines. Yet he knew he couldn’t possibly provide her enough to come close to what she’d given him.

Finally, their breathing evened out and Jon leaned down to kiss her. Her huffs of breath were still full of her fiery heat, and Jon devoured it. When he pulled away, her eyes were opened wide.

“Bloody hell,” she gasped with a grin. “Keep that up and you’ll be the death of me, Jon Snow.”

“Are you all right?” he asked, stroking the wisps of hair that had escaped her braids away from her forehead.

“I could ask the same of you,” she replied, concern alight in her eyes. “Was that too much? I didn’t want to break the skin.”

“It was perfect,” he said, so thankful for her. “You’re stronger than you look, Dany.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And you liked that?” Then she scoffed at her own question. “What am I saying, of course you did. That garnered quite the reaction.”

“You think me odd?” he questioned, sensing that she hadn’t yet arrived at what to make of all this.

“Only in the best way.” She smiled at him and Jon reached up to caress her cheek.

“I can live with that.” He grinned back, feeling at peace for the first time in a long while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to hear Dany's and Sansa's thoughts up next.


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, greetings. It's a holiday here, so I've had another joyous day of no work and was able to write. Huzzah! Hope all of you are well.
> 
> I've obviously slowed down a bit. There is just too much crazy shit happening every day. It is overwhelming. I can't keep up. I don't know what world we are living in anymore, day-to-day. My brain is just trying to keep it together.
> 
> My thanks to aflashofgreen who took a look at some of this chapter. She's my resident Sansa expert. For those of you who are still with me, who I haven't chased away, much thanks and gratitude for your kind words. Peace to you all.
> 
> Dialogue from 1x10, Fire And Blood, courtesy of Benioff and Weiss.
> 
> warning: here be dragons (Jon/Dany)

**.xviii**

Sansa sat at her desk with the parchment before her. She tapped the end of her quill against the rim of the ink pot a little too vigorously before putting it to the scroll, scrawling out Jon’s name quickly as her thoughts swirled. She considered the phrasing she might use so no one would be the wiser should it be intercepted, while Jon would decipher her meaning well enough. His announcement merited a response before he arrived with this queen and her entourage. Sansa wanted him to know her disappointment, but also to caution him.

_My dearest brother,  
_

She huffed in irritation at the opening, as she immediately scratched it out. Keeping it familial was letting him off too easy. Sansa didn’t want him dismissing her words as those from a nagging little sister. She wouldn’t let him forget that they were more than that.

_~~My dearest brother,~~ _

_My darling Jon,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Bran informed us that you’d had a bit of a run-in up North. It would have been much appreciated had you given me some notice, before sailing back to King’s Landing to meet with Cersei, after swearing to me that you WOULDN’T -_

Sansa groaned aloud as she crossed out the words with several scritches from her pen, a glob of ink at the end of the quill welling up on the parchment until it soaked through the scroll. She crumpled it into her fist before tossing it towards the fire in the hearth. It missed completely and rolled haphazardly across the stones to bump into Ghost’s nose. He raised his head and gave her a disapproving gaze before staring disinterested at the balled up paper.

“Well, he did say that,” she insisted, before pulling up another piece of vellum and slipping her quill back in its pot. 

“I don’t know why it’s so impossible for him to do even one thing that I’ve asked of him,” she grumbled aloud, tapping the end of her pen against the rim again as she prepared to commit her frenzied thoughts to paper. She wanted Jon to understand what he would be walking into once he arrived with this queen. She was already getting an earful of it from Lord Royce.

_My dearest Jon,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Your brother and sister are eager for your return, as am I. The Northern lords, however, have by now been made aware of your decision. Do be prepared for some disagreement at the first meeting we hold upon your arrival. Your queen has many here nervous, their whispers the incessant susurration of a river in spring._

_But one voice no longer carries his will to their worried minds. Littlefinger was found guilty of treason and murder and I had him executed. Bran and Arya sat on the council. It was unfortunate you could not be present for such a family affair. I know you would have wanted to have been involved, brother._

_I also know that you think only of your people’s welfare, that you worry for their survival in the war to come. I do hope you understand that the repercussions of your decision will have a lingering effect on morale. The North still has faith in their king, even though you have elected to hand your crown over to another in order to save us all. Your home is here, you belong here. I will do everything in my power to support and protect my family from those who would do us harm._

_The pups in the kitchen have now grown into hounds while you’ve been gone, and they are trained in the yard daily with the rest of us. Ghost waits patiently for you by the fire, I see him asleep by your chair some nights, waiting for his master to scratch him behind his ears. I don’t do it the right way, it seems, and he grows weary of my attempts._

_I would ask that you please send word to me from White Harbor once you reach port so I know when to expect you. I want to make sure we are absolutely ready for the armies you bring. It will be strange to see Lord Tyrion again. I do hope he is faring well._

_I avidly await your arrival. It has been too long._

_Your loving sister,_

_Sansa_

She leaned back in her chair and re-read it with a critical eye, imagining Jon’s reaction to her words. It was too staid, lacking verve and promise, she decided, although it sounded adult enough. She took up her quill again.

_I avidly await your arrival. It has been too long, Jon, since I’ve seen your face._

A twinge in her gut made her consider starting the letter anew, before she opted to keep it as it was, in the hope of giving Jon a remembrance of what they meant to each other before he left. It would be a vastly different mood once he returned to Winterfell. Since the trial, Arya and Bran were with her every day, it seemed. How she would maintain her composure around Jon and her siblings when every single nerve in her body would scream for his touch, would desire to feel his mouth on her breasts, was still a mystery to her, trying to imagine each day how she might manage to stand there and pretend that everything was completely normal.

Of course, Sansa’s many years in the capital had taught her well how to bury her feelings and leave those around her confused, yet this new arrangement already felt different. Would she still want Jon just as fiercely when she saw him once again? Her desire didn’t feel any less urgent, hadn’t seemed to wane an inch in all this time, even though she knew it was what he had hoped for when he left. But there was too much at stake this time to allow her mask to drop even for a single second. Arya was too perceptive, and Bran’s talents presented an entirely new danger for them both.

The disappointment at this realization only fed Sansa’s anger. At Jon. At her family. At the dead. It was all grossly unfair. 

Her mind seized on another image of Jon in her bed, recalling the shadow in his eyes as he coaxed her to find her pleasure using his body. Looking back, she understood now that it hadn’t been so much the safety her brother had represented which charged her growing appetites over those weeks, but more that whiff of danger and unpredictability which Sansa had found so thrilling, a side to Jon that few ever saw. She had destroyed her enemies and would do so again. Sansa wanted Jon with her when they vanquished their next foe together.

Thinking of Jon’s body – and his hands and his mouth – brought forth a scene from the day before, with her grip firm and her strokes steady around Gareth’s unrelenting erection. The boy was so earnest she sometimes felt a momentary glimmer of shame, as she had when he’d groaned her name the second before shooting his seed all over her hand. He was a good source of information, but perhaps she needed to keep him on a slow simmer before he boiled over. Arya would pick up on any odd behaviour from the guards and Gareth’s enthusiasm outside of Jon’s chambers was already becoming less discreet.

As if in answer to her thoughts, there was a timid rap at the door.

“Come in,” she called as she poured the wax to seal her scroll. There was a long whine as the door opened slowly and a young girl hesitantly stepped in. She quickly curtsied while Sansa stamped their family sigil to the wax. Sansa looked up when she was done as if just noticing her.

“Lira, thank you for coming. Do pull up a chair.”

“M’lady?” Lira’s eyes were wide as she blinked back like an owl, afraid to move from her spot.

Sansa stuck out a hand towards the chair to the right of her desk. “The chair. I want you to come and sit down. I have some things to go over with you.”

The girl was nervous, her hands clasped tightly together as she made her way to seat herself by Sansa’s desk, dragging the chair a bit closer. She studied her lady carefully as her hands sat in her lap.

“With Lord Baelish’s … _passing,_ I have been rooting out those who helped him during his stay here, and profited from feeding information to him on our king – my _family_ – on a weekly basis.” She watched the girl’s eyes practically pop out of her head. Not subtle, this one. “It has come to my attention that you were one of those people, Lira.”

The girl’s mouth dropped open. “M’lady! I-I didn’t – I wasn’t – that’s a lie, whoever said such a thing. I swear it.”

Sansa leaned back in her chair and sighed dramatically. “You were spotted by two reliable sources on two different occasions, conversing with him under the cover of shadow, Lira. Don’t bother to deny it. Just tell me why. Do we not take care of you well enough?”

The girl scooted forward in her seat, her fear plastered to her features. “Lady Stark, of course you do, I never had it better working ‘ere. I was – I thought I was helping to protect you. That’s what Lord Baelish said to me, that I should tell him what they was sayin’ in the kitchens about you and his Grace.”

“You were protecting us?” Sansa delivered flatly. She was of a mind not to believe the girl for one moment but of course knew first-hand how manipulative Littlefinger had been. This mouse of a girl would have been easy prey for the likes of him.

“Yes, m’lady, you have to believe me! He said that – that there were those from other houses who were a threat to you and your brother, the king. That they would try to hurt you by spreading vicious lies about the two of you. He wanted me to come to him right away if I heard anythin’ bad, wanted to know the kind of things that the other lords talked about while we was servin’ ‘em. If I found anythin’ seditious in their rooms.”

“And?” she asked, worried now. “Did you?”

“Did I what, Lady Stark?”

She leaned forward, her hands folded on her desk as she eyed the girl. “Hear any lies about us. Find evidence of sedition from one of the other lords.”

The girl grew even more frightened. “N-no, m’lady.”

“Well, you obviously told Lord Baelish something.” Lira went quiet, her eyes full of terror. “Lira, you do know the penalty for treason. You must tell me the truth.”

“I heard some things,” she rushed. The girl shook her head as though she preferred not to say. “About your brother, his Grace.”

A slight trickle of ice seized the back of Sansa’s neck.

“What sort of things?”

Lira went quiet again, watching her lady carefully. Finally, the girl dropped her gaze to the twisting hands in her lap. “A few of the lords … they’d refer to the king as _the bastard_. I’m sorry, Lady Stark, I’m just repeatin’ what I heard. They said you was the rightful ruler of the North, after all, that the king was reckless. They said …” She paused, glancing up timidly for a moment.

“Go on,” Sansa coaxed.

“There was talk. Some of the boys, they said his Grace lay with the witch before he sent her away on a mission. That he was full of … dark magic. That it was the reason he came back. That he would put a spell on this queen and devour her soul.”

Sansa frowned at such nonsense. “And you informed Lord Baelish of all this?”

“Most of it. He didn’t care none for magic, he said. He would ask me to find out what the servants was sayin’ about Lord Brandon, or even Lady Arya after she got here. If they was scared of ‘em.”

That surprised her. He really had been working diligently at sowing dissension towards Sansa’s family. She had expected it for Jon, but even Bran had been in Littlefinger’s sights.

“And are there those in the kitchens who are frightened by my brother and sister, Lira?”

“No, m’lady. They’s just a bit odd, ain’t they, with all they’ve been through? Who here would be scared of the Starks of Winterfell?”

“Well, that’s good to hear, at least.”

She looked down to her scroll, wondering what Jon was doing right at that moment. The Northern lords had all heard they had a new queen, and there was much they wanted to say about it with her, but would any of them actively work against Jon once he arrived? Sansa still needed a steady supply of information, needed to be aware of every player’s motives.

When she raised her eyes to the girl, Lira was still staring back at her with a frozen fear. Sansa smiled to put the girl at ease.

“I believe that you believed Lord Baelish, Lira. That he coerced you into spying for him as a ruse to protect us. I thank you for telling me truth. I’ve decided not to punish you.”

Lira gasped in relief. “Oh! Bless you, Lady Stark! Thank you for your mercy! I would do anything for your family, m’lady! I swear it!”

“I believe you would, Lira. So I will give you another opportunity to prove that to us. You no longer have to spy for Lord Baelish. But you will continue to spy for me.”

The girl’s face fell. “Lady Stark?”

“We have foreigners coming to the North to help us in this war. Jon has bent the knee to this queen from the East, and while there are many tales of her deeds, we know little about the woman herself. When my brother comes home with Queen Daenerys and her armies, we will host her in the king’s chambers of this Keep, in the floor above where King Robert once slept. I will have you assigned to her room as her chambermaid, Lira. You will attend to her needs, and you will assist any handmaidens she may bring in tow. And you will report to me with any information to be had, anything you hear or see that may be of interest.”

“You want _me_ to help the queen?” Lira seemed rather impressed by the notion.

“No, I want you to spy on the queen.” Sansa thought of the castle walls, recalled that there had been stories of secret tunnels, of spyholes in the walls of the Guest House. “But before she gets here, I want you to find out everything you can about the corridors and entrances leading to the king’s chambers. It’s been said there are features within the walls that allow for some … information gathering.” Sansa quirked an eyebrow as her lip curled, giving the girl the beginnings of a smile. “Do you think you are capable enough to do this for me, Lira?”

“Yes, m’lady. I can do it.”

Sansa’s smile broadened the tiniest bit.

“Good.”

* * *

  
  


She heard her child screaming in pain.

Daenerys looked up to the skies and saw Viserion again, the sheet of blood coming down from where the javelin pierced his heart. She felt his cry in every part of her: her heart squeezing, her stomach sinking, and her limbs turned to lead. In her head, she heard herself shouting for him, but outwardly, she could barely react, all of it seeming unreal as she watched Viserion plummet into the lake and disappear into its depths. Her child was gone. Just like Rhaego. The dream quickly summoned her only image of her boy, sitting on his father’s lap in that tent beyond the Wall. She’d seen them, held them, in the visions the House of the Undying had used to hold her, but now Daenerys could see its meaning. She’d gone to that place, ignored their warning, and had lost another one of her children. Her womb was truly cursed.

And then she turned to see Jon Snow yelling at her, waving her away, watched helplessly as those wraiths leapt upon him and he crashed through the ice as well. Something primal and beastly rose up in her at that moment. He was a part of her, her body knew it already. She refused to lose him, too.

 _No_ , she hissed under her breath, a rush of anger sweeping through her. Her eyes opened.

Dany felt the rock of the boat instantly, while her sight acclimated to her surroundings, taking in the details in the low light of her cabin. She saw Jon near the end of the bed, dragging his gambeson over his clothes as his head popped out of the neck, curls springing back. It was still dark outside, but he was bathed in the glow of the candles from around the room.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she mumbled, still groggy.

Jon froze and glanced in her direction.

“I was trying not to wake you,” he said with a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” she said, sitting up in her feather bed. She let the sheet fall to her lap, disregarding the chill of the air. She wanted him back in her bed to warm her.

“I thought I’d best head back to my room before everyone is awake,” he explained, coming towards her. He sat down on the edge of the bed and ran a caressing hand across her hair. “We have enough tongues wagging. No need to add any more to the gossip.”

“Let them talk, I don’t care.” Dany grabbed for Jon’s wrist and dragged his hand to her heart above her breast. “I’m not ready for you to leave just yet.”

Jon’s eyebrows were aloft. “You’re not? Then how may I be of service to my queen?”

“I have some ideas.” She bunched the fabric of his gambeson and pulled him to her so that their mouths were close. “Since you brought up wagging tongues …” Daenerys smiled wickedly, delighting in the way his eyes lit up. He enjoyed pleasuring her; she understood that much about him.

Jon leaned down to kiss her proper, wrapping his hands around her waist and bringing her flat against him. It was thrilling to be this close to him, and she wanted more of it, to feel his skin pressed against every inch of hers.

Dragging her mouth away, she whispered, “Take off your clothes.” A sudden wave of need rolled over her so powerfully she felt breathless from it. Dany wanted him; perhaps more than she’d wanted anyone in her entire life. Her tits were screaming for him, her cunt, the very center of her being, her dream still churning her emotions as she clung to him.

He stood up in a shot and began to reverse his actions from a few minutes earlier, pulling his gambeson and tunic from over his head with eagerness. She reveled in watching him, seeing his body slowly re-exposed to her. He was not a hulking man in the manner of Drogo, nor possessed a wily and wiry strength as epitomized by Daario Naharis, but was somewhere in between, with a physique that was economical but still pleasing to look at. Jon Snow was a beauty, through and through, she thought, and for a moment it felt strange to think of a man that way. Even his scars were beautiful to her, as they were revealed in the warm light of the cabin, symbolic of all that he’d endured and triumphed over, just as she had, and she put her hand over one of the wounds reverently as he leaned over her to climb back into bed. Immediately, he began to kiss his way down her belly.

“No,” she uttered, putting a hand on the crown of his head to stop him. He looked up in expectation. “Lay on your back,” she instructed.

“All right.”

And just like that, he did. No negotiating of power, no swagger or preening over his abilities. It was not always easy to tell what ran through Jon Snow’s pretty little head, but she could see his desire plainly there in his eyes and it shone with a wildness that made her feel all the more powerful for having snared it.

Dany sat up, putting her hands on his chest to leverage her weight as she hoisted herself atop him. Sliding her leg over his chest so she could straddle him, Daenerys again felt that rush as he took a hold of her thigh and calmly let her get situated. He smiled up at her so sweetly, but Dany wanted to see her lover caught up in his lust. It brought about a shift in him that allowed her to see that darker, dangerous side which he shielded so well.

“I want you to kiss my cunt again, the way you did last night,” she commanded. His eyes were locked on hers and she saw the shadow flicker over them. “Do you like doing that?”

“I do,” he said, sliding his hand along her thigh up to her waist to hold her. His black hair lay tumbled across her pillows and she reached down to clutch a fistful in her grip.

“Tell me then,” she said. “Tell me how much you like to do this to me.”

He looked surprised for a moment but quickly gave her what she asked.

“I want to taste you. All the time, not just here in your bed. I think of the way you fill my mouth when I’m alone. When I’m at dinner with you and your council. Imagine your pleasure sliding down my throat while the rest of them converse around the table. Sometimes, I can think of nothing else for hours at a time.”

Dany’s desire soared at such words, feeling the wetness between her legs trickle to her thighs. “And when you’re alone and thinking of my cunt, do you touch yourself?”

Jon didn’t look away from her. “I do.”

Just imagining such a thing had Dany trembling, wanting desperately to ride his cock and shout her need from stern to bow, but she would take it slow, allow him to build this with her. She wanted to watch his face as he performed on her. There was something so devout in his expression – one suggesting he’d been born for this very act, had been created just to please her – that it had become an aphrodisiac in itself just to witness it.

She slid closer to his mouth, leaning down to put both of her fists to either side of his head.

“I want you to touch yourself as you put your mouth on me. I want to see you, Jon Snow. All of you.”

She watched him gulp hard, but his gaze never left hers as he craned an arm around her leg, and she felt him handle himself behind her, felt the slow glide of his movement. Dany inched her body all the way up until her knees landed where her fists had been, buffeting his head, and her cunt was right over those decadent lips that opened for her, a stiffened tongue coming from between them to reach for _her_. Dany leaned into it, arching her back, her nipples tight, and a gasp sang from her mouth when she felt him slide his tongue across those soft parts of her, sending sparks through her head.

“Jon,” she moaned. “Touch me.”

Jon reached for her, his hand up against the small of her back to push her closer as he raised his head to devour her, his other arm still bumping along her leg as he worked his cock, his tongue pushing into her as he groaned loudly to meet her call. She took hold of his locks, holding his head between her legs, then felt his fingers ghost along the groove of her spine, swerve around to her front to hold a breast firmly in his grip, a thumb swiping back and forth delicately over her nipple and tightening it to a hard pebble until Dany wanted to cry out from the joy of it, yet feeling an ache in her so deep it dwarfed any mere sexual thrill.

“Deeper,” she groaned, already anticipating how strong her release would be as she began to rock across his face. Jon moved with her, his lips as plush as her own folds as he plucked at the fleshy bud at the top of her cunt, his cheeks buried in her thighs as he slipped his tongue inside her once again and began to fuck her with it, his large hands now curling around her legs and dragging her so close that as he lifted his head to plunder her, Dany’s knees came off the bed and she had to grab the back board to keep from toppling over.

“My gods, Jon,” she cried, and as she held on, thrusting her cunt to his face, again and again, she began to move faster, while everything Jon was doing felt so good, her body burning with her need of him. “Don’t stop.”

Jon still gripped her with one hand, while the other was moving at a pace with her as he sought his own pleasure, when suddenly his shoulders came off the bed and then he was lifting her with him, her body aloft.

“Oh!” she gasped, and then Jon was twisting and bringing her with him. All her breath left her as she was dropped to her back with a thud, his face now over hers. “What are you – ”

But she hadn’t even gotten the words out before Jon was grabbing her by the hips and dragging her downward, turning her over onto her belly and then roughly pushing her up on her knees. “Jon, I wasn’t– ”

Again, she wasn’t able to finish as she felt him lift her legs by the backs of her thighs and split her wide, then his mouth was upon her and this time he didn’t hold back at all, his tongue, fingers, his lips all over her, every inch, and Dany felt the heat in her face as he licked her in places which had never been explored before. “Jon!” she choked and then he was doing so many things to her at once that she could hardly catch her breath, overwhelmed by the sensations as unceasing waves of pleasure came again and again.

“I want you. Please fuck me,” she begged, in a high-pitched whine.

She felt his palm slide protectively under her belly and then he shifted her, lining up his pelvis at her bum until she felt his cock at her entrance with a hard poke. Jon pulled back with a harsh breath and then he was sliding into her carefully, lulling that ache as he filled her, pressing himself over her back as he grabbed her hips and pulled her towards him. Dany dropped forward and he thrust into her. At this angle, he went deep inside her and she sucked in another hard breath as his pace increased, her body slamming against his, his fingers deep in her flesh as he gripped her, guiding her back onto his cock until she felt those sparks come on stronger, turning everything blurry as the cabin disappeared and then suddenly she was back there, in the cold North, and Drogo and Rhaego waited for her in that warm tent while Viserion screamed overhead. Almost as quickly, memories of her wedding night were upon her, Drogo taking her this way, night after night, and her shame flooded her as it had then. And pain seized her womanly organs as Jon’s thrusts came in a steady stream, and Dany was reminded in that moment that she could give this man no child, her womb a desert as dry as the Red Waste, that she was useless to him beyond being his queen. What could they make of this union beyond a momentary pleasure? And her heart rent in two, for in that vision she knew without question that she loved this man as she had loved no other.

It was all too much.

“Wait!” she called, putting her hand behind her to grab onto whatever limb she could reach. “Stop.”

Instantly, Jon stopped moving as he pulled out of her, his harsh pants loud in the room. “Dany? Are you alright?”

But Dany felt the tears on her cheeks, a great sob let loose as she pulled away from him and threw herself at the pillows, turning so she could lean against them. She held her stomach with both hands as more tears flowed, and willed her pain away.

“Dany! I’m so sorry, have I hurt you?”

She wiped her eyes so she could see. Jon stared at her in horror, his mouth open as he moved to cradle her body, her knees up as she pressed her legs towards her belly.

“No, it-it’s alright,” she said in a rush. “It wasn’t anything you did.”

He didn’t appear to believe her. “But you’re obviously upset. What happened?” Jon rubbed her legs comfortingly as he sat close to her.

She felt silly now. Dany took hold of his hand and held it tight. “I’m sorry, my love. I had a dream earlier. A nightmare. And it – the memory of it lingered and it simply overwhelmed me in the moment. You did nothing wrong.”

Jon studied her, his eyes flicking over her as he debated whether she was telling the truth. Finally, he let out a long breath. “All right. What sort of dream? Perhaps sharing it will help.”

She shook her head in her embarrassment, no longer wanting to dwell on it. “Oh, it was just – I have these dreams now and again of Viserion. Of his – the way he died. I can hear him and … and it fills me with sadness. Not an opportune moment to have such thoughts, I’m afraid.”

Jon’s eyes went wide, the pain held in them a match to her own. That he felt things so deeply was a trait she admired in him. It made her love him all the more.

“Of course you would still be sad. Your grief will be with you for a long time. I’m sorry, Dany. I feel that I will never be able to apologize enough. It was my fault it happened. I can’t forgive myself.”

“No, Jon, you mustn’t think like that,” she urged, her wits returning to her.

Jon sighed as he cast his gaze to the rest of the cabin. “But it’s true. I brought you there. I didn’t think. I – I didn’t imagine –” He darted eyes to her, a guilty thought written across his face.

“You didn’t imagine what?” she prompted.

He looked flustered. “I didn’t – forgive me. I simply meant to say that, I hadn’t anticipated you bringing all three. I thought you could only ride Drogon. I didn’t think it through. There just wasn’t time.”

Dany frowned. “My children go where they want. They wanted to come. They felt they had to be there. If I had listened to you, had believed the things you told me, then I would have been better prepared. Don’t punish yourself, Jon. I’m just as responsible.”

Where they held hands, Jon wrapped another hand around hers. “I would give anything to change what happened, Dany.”

“No,” she said with a firm, commanding voice. “I told you, only death pays for life. Viserion was lost so that I might save you. Your life is a precious thing to me, Jon Snow. You were returned to me, and that is all I can ask.”

He watched her as she spoke. “But that is a terrible choice to have to make, and it was a choice unbeknownst to you at the time. I should never have put you in such a position.”

“I won’t hear anymore of this, Jon,” she said, chastising him gently. “Besides, it’s not as if I hadn’t been forced to make such a choice once before.”

His brow furrowed as he sat closer to her, still holding her hand. “What do you mean?”

A long breath came in a gust from her lungs, the question summoning a bevy of complicated emotions.

“I told you that a witch had cursed me, told me that I would bear no children. But I didn’t tell you the story of how it came to be.”

“No, you didn’t. If you wish to tell me, however, I would hear your tale.”

She didn’t know how to begin. “I thought my son would be the stallion who mounts the world,” she said. “I felt him in me as a strength, one that I had never known before. I felt more powerful with him present inside me. But then … my husband, Drogo, was in a fight with one of his bloodriders. The man had slandered me, and Drogo would not stand for it. So they fought. Drogo killed him, but not before the man had wounded him. Of course Drogo brushed it off, made light of it, but the wound festered and he became gravely ill.” She saw the face of Mirri Maz Duur for a moment and anger hardened her voice. “And I was stupid. I turned to dark magic, hoping it would save my husband, but the witch played me for a fool. She said she would require my son to save Drogo’s life, and I sanctioned it, told her she could do it, willingly gave up my child. When I woke up, Rhaego had been taken from me, dead in my womb, and my husband,” her voice suddenly broke. “My husband was nothing more than a sack of flesh and bones, no life in his eyes, no reason, no strength. He was a husk with a heart that still beat. She mocked me when I demanded she make him as he was, reminded her that this hadn’t been part of the bargain.”

She heard Mirri Maz Duur’s voice in her ear and began to recite. ““When the sun rises in the west and sets in the east. When the seas go dry and mountains blow in the wind like leaves. When your womb quickens again, and you bear a living child. Then he will return, and not before.” She turned to Jon, tears in her eyes again. “It was so cruel, to leave him that way. And I had made that choice.”

Jon’s eyes shimmered wetly as they remained locked on hers, and she watched his throat bob when he swallowed. “What happened to him?” he asked softly, his fingers now slipped between hers.

“I ended him,” she stated with ease. “I couldn’t leave him like that. His soul needed to be freed so that he could ride in the Night Lands. I sent him off to his god in a great pyre where my children were born.”

Jon searched her eyes before he spoke. “Ser Jorah told me that he watched you go into that fire, that he thought he would see you burn, but when the fire was out and the sun rose, you sat there, naked and unharmed, and your baby dragons singing as they clutched at your breast.”

Dany was surprised to hear it. “When did he tell you that?”

He looked down for a moment, shame washing over his features briefly. “On that cursed lake. Up north where you found us. It had been the second night on that rock, we were all frozen through, and everyone shared stories just to keep our mouths moving and our minds intact.”

Her body shuddered as she imagined it, realizing how close she had come to losing them both. “Of course.”

Jon sighed, squeezing her hand again. “I can’t imagine how difficult that was for you.” He glanced up at her. “To have to be the one to finish him, and end the life of your great love. What incredible strength of mind that must have taken. But you did the right thing. It was a kindness in the end.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “What the witch did was horrible. Was there … why did she want to hurt you so?”

A startling image flew into Daenery’s head; of Mirri Maz burning, her body engulfed by the flames as she thrashed in her binds, her screams growing higher in pitch. She recalled the conversation on that cliffside as though it had happened yesterday. _He lives. You asked for life, you paid for life._ The betrayal she’d felt in that moment was one she would return to again and again, pain from those who had wronged her when she had given them all she had, to realize they had thought so little of her.

_My child was innocent!_

_Innocent? He would have been the stallion who mounts the world. Now he will burn no cities, now his khalasar will trample no nations into dust._

_I spoke for you. I saved you!_

_Saved me? Three of those riders had already raped me before you ‘saved’ me, girl. I saw my God’s house burn. There where I had healed men and women beyond counting. In the streets I saw piles of heads – the head of a baker who makes my bread; the head of a young boy whose fever I’d cured just three moons past. So … tell me again exactly what it was that you saved?_

She had begged Drogo for this woman’s life, and this was how Mirri Maz had repaid her. She heard the woman’s answer and a shudder went through her again.

_Why don’t you take a look at your khal, then you will see exactly what life is worth when all the rest has gone._

But the witch’s words felt different now, with all that had happened to her, with all that she’d seen. She had been alone since leaving for Westeros, had found comfort in only her handmaidens while on Dragonstone, and she knew that she wanted to share her life with someone, to make all of this suffering mean something. Someone like Jon. She had thought she would have to marry again for political gain, but was there even the smallest chance that she could marry for love?

“The Dothraki had raided her village,” she said in answer, not willing to give him any more. “She did it out of vengeance.”

“I’m so sorry, Dany.” He looked thoughtful as he trailed fingers soothingly from her knee to her ankle. “You said your son would be the stallion who mounts the world. What does that mean, exactly?”

“It was a prophecy from the elder crone of the dosh khaleen. It meant I would take the throne and that one day my son would rule all the seven kingdoms, as well as the East.”

Jon leaned back. “You believed this?”

“Of course I did,” she insisted. “I felt it, as I ate that heart. Felt such power even then, knowing my son had many more moons to go before he could be born.”

“Wait. Did you just say you ate a _heart?"_

Dany was pulled out of her reminisces of that night as she looked to Jon’s face, his eyebrows raised so high it was comical. She chuckled at the sight, dispelling some of the weight of the moment.

“Well, yes, but it was a horse’s heart before you get any mad scenes in your head.”

“You ate the heart of a _horse_?” he echoed back in disbelief. “And how does one eat a horse’s heart?”

“Quite raw,” she said with a smirk, surprising him even further as his eyes stretched wide. “It was part of their tradition. A _khaleesi_ must eat the entire heart as an offering to _Vezhof_ , so that she might bear her _khal_ a son who would conquer all worlds. I had to do it in front of the horse lords, all of the dosh Khaleen, and most of the khalasar, under the temple in Vaes Dothrak. I remember that when they cut it out of the animal with stone knives and handed it to me, it was still warm and throbbing. Or perhaps I just imagined that it was. I didn’t think I could do it at first, even though I'd prepared for it, but all eyes were on me, and I should not fail this. So I took the first bite. It was slimy, and hot, but … I don’t know, it was good, I guess. A meat so tender, like nothing I’d eaten before. The most powerful feeling had come over my mind. It seemed like I was being transported through different worlds the more I ate of it. And I just kept going, even swallowing down the toughest parts. I never thought a heart would be so … substantial. I didn’t eat anything else for three days.”

Jon was silent at first, blinking back at her as if she should poke him back into reality. Then he shook his head with incredulity. He stared at her and his awe was so great; Dany felt a stirring between her legs to see it.

“That is … the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.”

Dany smirked again. “Oh, is that what it took to impress you? Perhaps I should have opened with that tale when we met.”

He smiled shyly. “Everything you do impresses me, Dany. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever known.”

He warmed her heart and she slid her fingers through the curls that fell to his cheek to show him how she cherished him. “Maybe I should have Missandei add that to my titles. Daenerys Stormborn, eater of hearts.”

Jon’s smile widened. “I think Missandei has enough to remember as it is,” he teased. Then his smile dimmed and he put his hand low on her stomach. “Do you feel better? Has the pain stopped?”

But she grinned back at him. “You wish to continue where we left off?” The tickle between her legs had grown to a strong pulse. She wanted to feel him move in her again, even more so now that she had shared so much of herself with him.

“Oh, I only meant, I wanted to make sure you were not still hurting.” Those full lips pinched into a pout as he looked up into her face. “I know these things can … weigh on a woman. I should leave you to your rest and head to my room.” He looked towards the porthole where the dawn was sending in its first light. “You should skip the dining hall and stay in here for the day. Get some proper sleep, Dany, without the interruption of disturbing dreams and distractions such as myself.”

“I like that idea,” she said, the thought of having a day away from her council with only one face to look at a sudden luxury she needed. “But with one exception. _You’re_ not going anywhere. You’re staying here with me.”

His surprise returned. “What do you mean?” Jon glanced around the cabin, and to her bed. “As in, stay in bed? All day? With you?”

“Unless you have some objections?”

Jon took a moment to absorb her intended suggestion. “I don’t. But what shall we do with the entire day before us?”

Dany put both her hands to either side of his face, holding him close to her. “I can think of many things,” she whispered, drawing his mouth to hers. He kissed her, and Dany wanted to be nowhere else in the world but this room, and in this bed. “Jon,” she breathed between kisses. Then he was pushing her back to the pillows, his body pressed to hers, and Daenerys let the rest of the world fall away.

* * *

Varys stood at the railing of the boat, feeling the breeze ruffle his collar. It was early enough in the morning that the skies showed only the faintest light, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. Too much was hanging in the balance, and for the first time in a long while, Varys was unsure which way the scales would tilt.

“You’re up quite early.” The voice came from behind him, but Varys didn’t bother to turn around, knowing Tyrion was striding up to join him.

“As are you, my friend. Pray tell, what could have _possibly_ woken you at such an hour?”

“Just how many more weeks are we stuck on this damn boat, anyway,” Tyrion grumbled as he came to seat himself on a crate by Vary’s foot. “I should like to be able to sleep my way through one night without the passionate cries of our beloved queen ringing through the walls of my cabin.”

“They are rather diligent.”

“I’m not yet entirely sure what this will mean for our alliance with the North. It could go very badly.”

Varys straightened to take a look at Tyrion’s stern expression. “You think Jon Snow might insult our queen by playing a poor lover?”

“Have you heard the sheer volume of those stentorian screams?” Tyrion balked. “Somehow, I don’t think Daenerys would consider ‘ _poor lover’_ an appropriate description in relation to Jon Snow.”

“You know that’s not what I meant,” Varys complained. He was worried. “Will he be the type of man to treat our queen poorly, in other words? He seems as honourable as his father, of course, but in matters of the heart, honour can be a hazard.”

“Jon is in love with her,” Tyrion stated easily. “Any fool can see it. But how will the North see this union? His half-brother was a king once, too, and my father orchestrated his murder by playing on the insulted family’s sense of injustice. Robb Stark married for love, and his people suffered for it. They will be wary to see it again.”

“Yes, Robb Stark was murdered by the Freys. And so, too, was Jon Snow murdered. What do we make of a man who uses magic to return from the dead? How has it changed him?”

“Well,” Tyrion answered carefully. “From what little I’ve managed to get out of Ser Davos, Jon Snow didn’t use _any_ magic to return from the dead. It was quite literally carried out on him by someone else. This priestess we met at Dragonstone.” He eyed Varys smartly. “It’s not the same as Stannis, Varys. He didn’t seek it out. It was used on him the same way it was used on you, without his consent. No wonder she was keen for us to meet with him.”

Varys shivered at the thought, bringing his fur-lined collar closer to his neck. “We don’t know how this might affect his future actions.” He looked down to Tyrion. “And there’s the matter of her ending up with a bastard’s child in her belly. Particularly in light of the relentless action happening upon this ship.”

“I told you. Daeneyrs insists she can’t have children.”

“And what if she’s wrong?”

Tyrion spread his hands wide. “She’s had lovers. Do you see her with a babe in her arms?”

“I see, so you think our queen has never been exposed to the ways a woman might prevent a pregnancy from transpiring? Even the lowest midwife knows of moon tea.”

“She believes it. She might have resorted to prophylactic measures if she had thought differently, but she didn’t. Our queen _wants_ a child. Especially now, while in her grief. She wants Jon Snow as more than a paramour. She knows what is at stake. She left a lover behind, after all.”

“Daario Naharis was not born into one of the noblest Houses of the seven kingdoms, however, bastard or no. And so what happens if she needs to make another alliance, this time by marriage?” he wondered aloud. “If she had intended to marry the king in the North to secure their fealty, she would have made her move. Now, she is an unfettered monarch with her Warden as her lover. And we are on our way to fight a war that we have no idea how to win.”

But more than that, it was the presence of the darkest magic in Jon Snow that concerned Varys. He would have to watch this Stark more carefully, would engage him in more debate. He had to know with absolute assurance that they had not invited another Stannis to their ranks.

“We will come to that road eventually and will deal with it then, but for now, I would hope that Jon Snow gets tired for a single night so that I might sleep. I do need my sleep. I can’t plan effectively without a solid night of rest.”

“I get the sense that it’s not likely to happen in the near future,” he warned. “At least not until we make it to White Harbor. Although the thought of hearing their passion crying out from a tent each night as we march our way to Winterfell does fill me with a yearning to suddenly go deaf for a fortnight.”

“Let us hope the snows let up enough that we can make haste.”

“Yes, if our luck continues. As the Starks like to remind us, winter has indeed come and I have always had a preference for warm climate.” He thought briefly of his nemesis, harbored at Winterfell already with young Sansa Stark. What would he find once they got there?

Varys put his hand to his collar again and drew the fur closer as another breeze left a chill up his back.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, today's not a tense day or anything. I hope this serves as a momentary distraction.
> 
> Thanks so much to mimreads for playing beta on this chapter. Her notes were most appreciated.
> 
> I also want to call out to my buddy, Yamz. I really hope you are well, wherever you are! (I get worried, okay?)
> 
> So, while this is not quite the last we'll see of Boatsex, we will absolutely make it to Winterfell next chapter. Our crew will have to do a little teleporting, sorry. Landing at White Harbor and then we're jumping over the trek to WF and get to some introductions. 
> 
> Here be dragons (Jon/Dany).
> 
> tw: choking, a little bit. But I mean, come on, I only telegraphed this from a mile away.

**.xxix**

“These are delicious.”

Dany looked up from stroking Jon’s thigh, where she lay across the bed on her stomach, and watched him pop another pitted date in his mouth.

“You have a penchant for succulent tastes on your tongue, Jon Snow.” She winked at him with a sly grin. “It seems I have benefited greatly from this indulgence of yours.”

The slow bloom of a knowing smile across his face as he chewed had her desire surging again, breasts tingling and a squeeze in her cunt while she watched his eyes shine with his enduring need of her. They’d made love several times already and yet it was still early in the afternoon. A servant had brought them wine for refreshment, with some cheese and dates to fill their hungry stomachs. Certainly, Jon Snow had taken his own version of nourishment from her to slake his lustful thirst throughout various points of the morning and Daenerys felt that thrum between her legs as she recalled the intensity of those climaxes. There were times she thought he might enjoy the act even more than she did, but Dany was rapidly growing accustomed to his zealous and giving nature.

In fact, that very generosity was beginning to define him, she mused, as she compared him to her modest sampling of lovers. She had expected Jon Snow to be as dull and as simple as the Northmen Tyrion had described to her, but he’d ended up being as far from dull as possible, and nothing remotely simple in his message. Even before she’d discovered the unique circumstance in his return to life, there had been something about him which had captured her attention. Jon had told her that she’d made the impossible happen, and Daenerys had understood he spoke the truth; she was different than everyone else, could do things no other person could. To realize Jon was just as special had excited her. Of course she would be drawn to one who shared such a rarified existence. That first night together had been lovely, passionate, and about what she had imagined. And that had been perfectly fine; he was a kind and caring lover, she was fortunate to have a man as decent as him in her bed.

But when he’d allowed her to take a belt in hand and give him the lashings he apparently craved, the change in him had been startling. A fire had blazed within him, and the sheer vibrancy in his eyes alone had been thrilling enough to behold, but then he’d taken her as if his very life depended on her. And it was in that moment that Daenerys had felt a kinship to another like nothing she’d ever felt before. Riding Jon Snow had been tantamount to sitting astride Drogon, the heat and power that emanated from him making her feel as if she owned the world having conquered him. Even tempering the beastly nature of Khal Drogo had not filled her with such a potent desire.

“When I was a young boy, I would sometimes steal the sweets out of the kitchens when no one was looking,” he said, interrupting her thoughts.

She pretended to be scandalized. “What? The honourable Jon Snow was a little thief? Oh, how my idols have fallen from their pedestals, my lord.”

He chuckled, though his tone was cynical. “I’m no idol. And I could be a right little shit.” Then he turned serious. “I was angry a lot of the time. Always feeling on the outside of my family. I knew I should be grateful, that I was lucky to be there. But I didn’t always show it.”

Dany looked down where her fingers still swirled about the bruises of his thigh, the dried scab a crusty lump where he’d done the most damage. “Is that why you resort to this?” Her eyes snapped up to catch him staring at her, his mouth a stitched seam. “You feel guilty.”

Jon slowly shook his head. “No, I told you why.”

She arched an eyebrow, still unbelieving. “And you think that’s the only reason? Because the people’s voices overwhelm you? The man who told me his people had chosen him and so he would continue to lead them as best he can, even when this queen insisted he bend the knee? Do you ever think that you might hold yourself to an impossible standard, Jon? You died – as did your brothers, your father, your mother, your lover. Yet, here you are, back among the living, and they are not. You want to punish yourself for it.”

He seemed disturbed by her words. “I’m not. Punishing myself. Not for that.”

“Do you sometimes wish you hadn’t come back?” she asked, feeling a sudden tightness in her chest. She remembered how swiftly he’d elected himself for the mission, how eager he seemed to put himself in danger. She saw him falling backwards into the lake again and a chill went up her back.

Jon was quiet for a moment, his thoughts clouded from her as a shadow fell over his face. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here now. And I want to believe … need to believe, that I’m here for a purpose. Perhaps I returned so that I should meet you.” His eyes shone black in the firelight and they bore into hers. “I _want_ to be here with you, Dany.”

She leaned down and kissed the scar there amidst purplish skin. Dany wanted Jon to stay in the world with her, too, more than anything. She sighed as the pad of her finger traced the scab. She wanted to poke at it some more, scrape it back and see what made it bleed. Being handed the reins to direct his need for this had been a heady sensation, yet with every slap of the belt she’d wielded over his flesh it had also been a means to keep him with her, tied to this earthly plane. There was an elusive spirit in him, and Dany deigned to discover the truth of it.

“When I was married to Drogo, I was given several handmaidens after my wedding. One of them was a gift from my brother.” She frowned, the memory of Doreah’s teary face as she begged for her life looming large in her mind for a moment. Glancing up to Jon, she smiled easily, pulling to the fore a happier recollection from their earlier days.

“She was purchased from a pleasure house in Lys and brought to Pentos by Ilyrio Mopatis, a benefactor to me and Viserys. She’d grown up in one, she’d told me, and had seen many things from faraway lands. She would tell me stories of some of the men who visited her, of the various acts which they enjoyed. Some were quite shocking.” She turned away shyly, not wanting to make Jon feel awkward by observing his reaction as she spoke. “Men, and even some women, who preferred pain – found pleasure in it, she said. They would ask for strange harnesses, would insist on being shackled, then beaten or whipped. A few were tied up with ropes in elaborate knots and suspended from ceilings.” Dany kept her eyes to his leg as she leaned on her side then moved to sit up on her knees. “It was quite interesting to hear her thoughts. She said that some simply liked the thrill of it. They were rich nobles with pampered lives and had grown bored. Others seemed to have many demons that drove them. And some liked very dangerous acts to be performed on them and paid handsomely for the service.”

She raised her eyes and met his gaze head-on. “Have you heard of such stories?”

“I don’t have much use for brothels,” he answered with a pained smile.

“No, I don’t imagine so,” she agreed. She got up on her hands and knees and shuffled over to him, straddling his thighs so she could sit upon his lap. Dany cupped the side of his face and stroked her thumb across his cheekbone with her heart open. “You are not that kind of man. But still, you should not worry that you might shock me with these confessions of yours.”

“It’s just a belt, Dany,” he demurred, the smile vanishing. “I’m more disturbed by the notion that your brother purchased you a whore as a wedding gift.”

“Yes, I suppose. “ She looked at the scars on his torso and stroked one lightly, making him shiver. She had no interest in discussing Viserys. Her finger trailed up his body and then settled into the notch at the center of his clavicle, right below his neck. She felt his pulse there with jangled insistence. “There was a man, this girl told me, a glassblower from Myr who liked for her to circle her little hands around his throat while she rode him during their coupling. He would have her squeeze her hands until his eyes bulged, tighter and tighter until all of his breath was strangled from him, right up until he climaxed, and then she would let go and he would be most grateful after.”

And in that second she saw it. Jon’s desire flashed darkly in his eyes, the same as when she’d whipped him, and Dany watched him swallow hard as she leaned in closer, his breaths rapid. An understanding had landed, there in that look, before shame took over and he turned away from her quickly. She saw his cheeks stained red and the shame confused her. Why not own that desire? She needed to understand it.

“Why would your handmaiden be sharing these stories with you in the first place?” he questioned, his voice rough. “They hardly sound appropriate. You were her _khaleesi_ , not a mate.”

“Why do you think someone would want to be brought so close to death intentionally,” she asked him, instead, “in the moment of his greatest pleasure?” Dany put her hand to his chest, where his heart was beating so hard it thumped against her palm.

“Maybe he was searching for something.” Jon was still looking away from her, yet she heard his fear plainly. Her hand curved around his bearded jaw, a thumb pressed to a plush lip, as she turned him to face her.

“What was he searching for?”

“A place.”

“What kind of place?”

Jon shrugged at first, but his eyes were locked with hers. “A dark place,” he admitted, in a rough burr barely above a whisper. “One where there’s no sound. No children. Nothing at all. Just … perfect silence.”

Dany felt the cold envelop her at such a bleak picture and she moved closer to him, her thumb brushing over the top of his mouth. His lashes dropped down as he leaned in to kiss it, before opening his mouth to suck on it lovingly, his need so engrossing it seemed to dim the light of the room as all of Dany’s concentration narrowed to his face.

“What children, Jon?” A dull ache spread through her womb as she was painfully reminded again she could give this man no progeny. She felt a hot spark of anger at the unfairness of it, and at Jon for bringing it up.

“It doesn’t matter. I haven’t seen them since I met you.”

“I don’t understand.”

He sighed, taking hold of her hand and crushing it to his chest. “Like you, I often had nightmares where the dead would haunt me, sometimes nightly. They tended towards the young.”

The news concerned her.

“These were children you – you knew?”

“Some of them, yes.”

But she grew frustrated with the deliberately mysterious nature of his answers. “And you seek to avoid these children – these _nightmares_ by disappearing into darkness?” That did not bode well for their coming fight with the dead.

“I thought we were talking about a glassblower from Myr,” he said.

“Don’t get cheeky.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

In a sudden movement, Dany dropped her hand to his throat, gripping what she could with her thumb and fingers to either side of his neck. “I want you to be honest with me.” His eyes positively gleamed with fire, arousal stamped in his features with a naked fury. “What do you want?”

“I want you,” he growled, looking feral in his wantonness.

“Yes, you do,” she acknowledged, seeing the full truth of it. She felt it, too, under her seat where he’d grown hard. “And what is it you wish me to do to you?”

“Whatever you want, my queen,” he rasped, her fingers squeezing a bit tighter. He opened his mouth to suck in a sharp breath, leaning his head back to allow her total reach of him.

“You like this,” she noted. He stared at her dully, in a state, and she worried he’d slip away from her. She stretched her fingers wider, pressing the web of her hand against the pulse in his neck. “Answer me, Jon Snow. I demand you tell me the truth.”

Jon nodded slowly in reply, his gaze stuck fast to hers, and there in those eyes Dany saw her dragon reappear. A vivid memory of Drogon saw him coming to her rescue in Draznak’s pit, the way he’d roared in her face before recognizing her. She’d stood her ground then, and so she would here.

Dany slid her body off of his and watched a glimmer of fear spasm in his face the second before she touched him, held his stiffened cock with her other hand while never letting go of his throat. She began to stroke him and Jon groaned deeply, closing his eyes in pleasure.

“No. Look at me,” she demanded. She would not let him disappear into a dark world, where he hovered in stasis. He would stay with her.

Jon did as she asked. He was thick for her and she gripped him possessively, rubbing him roughly to watch his eyes spark again. She sensed he liked it that way, to be handled brutishly, and with an iron will. In the periphery of her vision, she saw him reaching for her waist.

“Don’t touch me,” she reprimanded, and he pulled his hand back as if she’d slapped him. “Put your hands to either side of you.” She nodded towards the iron ring at the end of a post, never slowing down her strokes on his cock, nor loosening her hold on his throat. “Take hold of those hoops.”

Jon did as he was told, stretching his arms wide to grasp them, his body on offer. His desire flowed freely in every part of him where he couldn’t keep still, teeth biting into his lower lip as he glanced down to where her hand worked him, his hips moving in tandem with her strokes. Dany feared she might climax simply from watching him writhe, her heart beating as fast as his. But she wasn’t done with him yet.

Letting go of his member, Dany mounted him, getting up on her knees as she held herself right over his straining need, dew glistening across the cut of him. “Don’t move. Only when I say you can.”

“Yes, Dany,” he croaked, his skin reddening where held him, a flush creeping up into his face as he tried to draw breath. She eased off the pressure and slid her grip under his jaw, pushing his head far enough back until it banged against the wood. When she descended on him, her movements so slow, the rush of sensations were twofold. It felt so good to have him inside her, solid and palpitating, and yet seeing him groan aloud as the walls of her cunt gripped him tight, his body laid out before her as though in sacrifice, with eyes rolling back until the whites were exposed, set off a series of pops in her fevered brain. The righteousness she carried as she walked through fire suddenly flooded her, that feeling that she belonged there, that she alone could conquer those who would do harm in this world, flared so brightly in Dany her breasts ached with the weight of it, and Jon’s cock filling her, making her spine rigid as she came down on him hard, again and again. She started to fuck him with urgency, the growls she heard coming from her this time.

“Stay with me,” she cried raggedly, as she observed Jon’s face, that wildness present in him driving her, and then they were riding together, his hips rising off the bed as he met every thrust, and Dany felt dizzy from it.

She felt him go deep and she cried out again, leaning forward to wrap both hands around his neck. She dragged his face towards hers. “Kiss me,” she whined. He rose up to meet her mouth, their tongues like eels, slithering bodies that fought to invade each other, and she recalled how it felt to have him lick her cunt, to feed him what he craved, and so Dany kissed him harder. This man was hers. She knew it with certainty, as certain as she knew herself.

He slid his mouth away from hers after a while, as she rode his cock with a frantic exuberance. “Dany, please let me touch you.”

“Yes. Put your hands on me.”

He shouted in gratitude, his hands around her waist, her back, his mouth over a nipple, and they fucked as one, their bodies a perfect undulating wave against a mounting madness. Dany gripped his hair in fistfuls and jerked his head backward so she could plunder his mouth again. When he moaned in her, it was full of desperation.

“Hit me,” he breathed against her lips.

She thought she’d misheard and stopped instantly, leaning back to take in his worshipful expression.

“What,” she asked laughingly, in disbelief.

“Strike me,” he urged, the look of him properly debauched with dark eyes hooded and his lips swollen.

“With your belt?”

“Gods, just do it now.”

And so she slapped him across his face, feeling quite confused.

It seemed to be what he wanted. “Again. Harder,” he growled from deep in his throat, his eyes now black. Dany’s next blow struck with more force and Jon’s reaction was explosive.

With a scream in his throat, Jon was suddenly all over her, his mouth on skin, his hands gliding over her arse as he brought her body down on his cock, pumping into her spasmodically while he held her tight. Before she knew what was happening, he was turning them around until it was her back against the headboard and pillows, Jon hiking her legs up around his waist and then pushing himself to his knees until he was fucking her into the wall itself by the feel of it, the pure force of him like being battered about in a storm at sea.

“Jon, don’t stop!” she cried, and his power thundered through her until her breath caught, her release so quick upon her that she was shocked by it. But Jon didn’t slow down until several minutes later when he roared his climax, his lips pressed over her shoulder so she felt his scream reverberate through her skin, to the muscle and bone underneath.

When he was done, they were both panting hard, her body limp against his. Jon dropped to his back with another loud groan, putting his hands over his face.

“I am so sorry,” he said, gasping for breath.

Daenerys lay there stunned a moment, before sitting up to acknowledge his apology. “Whatever for?” she asked. He was a strange one.

He kept his face hidden as he spoke. “I don’t know what that’s about. I didn’t mean to push you into anything untoward, or uncomfortable. It was … I don’t know why that happens.”

She circled his wrist with delicate fingers and pulled his hand away so she could see him. Jon was still flushed pink from his exertions but his embarrassment shone clearly. He wouldn’t look at her, keeping his sight diverted to the wood above them.

“Don’t be silly. That was fantastic,” she said, her smile encouraging through harsh breaths. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met, Jon Snow.”

Jon snapped his eyes to her then, his surprise blatant. Whatever he saw there in her face, he started to laugh. Her curiosity at its peak, she narrowed her eyes at him, stymied by the change. Then Jon began to giggle, watching her with amusement as the giggles cascaded like music throughout the room. She found herself giggling along until eventually they were both laughing uncontrollably, and Dany rolled over him in delight.

“I wasn’t teasing,” she said with a grin, running a few fingers through the hair that had fallen over his eyes and brushing it back. “I meant it.”

“Well, at least we know we didn’t wake anyone this time,” he said in a deep, serious voice, before another series of giggles trailed after it. She slapped at his shoulder, but then quickly dropped down to kiss him.

 _I love you. And I make you happy, you know I do_ , Daario had said to her in their last conversation, before she’d left him behind. He had made her content, but she hadn’t loved him. Daario had been a simple man, fulfilled by simple pleasures. Then there had been her husband. Drogo had been intimidating, and their marriage had not started on a good note, yet he too, had been simple enough to please, to understand, once she’d mastered him.

But Jon Snow was more complicated than most men. And Dany was beginning to realize that she very much appreciated a complicated man.

They were still in bed by the time the sun started to set and a bronze light filled the room like dying embers, leaving them swaddled in its last rays of warmth. Dany lay across Jon, her head on his chest to listen to his heart beating while he stroked her hair, his fingers softly trailing down her back. She tried to imagine what it must have felt like to have cold steel run through that thumping vessel, the terror that came with the realization that death was swooping in.

“It must have been so strange,” she said aloud, puncturing their comfortable silence. “To have felt your heart slow down, until it finally stopped beating, your life slipping away.” How alone he must have felt.

“I don’t really remember any of it.” His voice rumbled under her, she could feel it in his chest. Dany lifted her head to peer at his face. She didn’t believe him.

“Do you remember the moment when you breathed life again? When you first opened your eyes? What was that like?”

Jon ran his hand along her cheek, smiling tenderly. “I was very cold. It was bloody freezing in the room and I was stark naked.”

“I’m of the same mind as Tyrion here. Don’t make light of such a profound experience, Jon.”

“Well, you asked.”

She glared at him until he scoffed, his gaze sliding off to the rest of her room. “I don’t know.” He gave a half-hearted shrug, sighing heavily. “At first, it was though … I was rising through the darkness, the only light a soft glow in front of me, like a candle in a very dark room, and I was floating upward, towards it. Then I was suddenly awake, and it was like being plunged into cold water. Violent and terrifying. Once I sat up, it slowly began to dawn on me that something was very wrong. That I … I wasn’t supposed to be here.”

“That must have been very upsetting,” she said.

“It was.”

“Were you distressed because you recalled your death in that instant? Or because you realized you were alive again?”

His eyes shifted to her, a thread of distrust hanging there. “I remember being murdered, Dany, alright? All of it. The event was not pleasant. I prefer not to think about it. Haven’t we had this discussion already?”

“You don’t think the experience pertains to your recent actions in any way?”

“Dany,” he said gruffly, his patience evaporating. “Please. It’s done. I see no need to revisit it. The entire conversation is morbid.”

“Fine, then,” she conceded, a bit haughtily. “Tell me of your other lovers besides this wildling girl.”

That brought him up sharp and he straightened with a start. “What other lovers?” he asked, a poor attempt at innocence.

“Oh, come now, Jon,” she grinned, her tone sardonic. “You certainly don’t expect me to believe there was only one.” A man did not learn how to please a woman so artfully from a single subject.

Fear returned to his eyes, however, and Dany was keen to discern the reason for it. He swallowed hard before answering. “Why do you say that? I wasn’t – I didn’t know a woman until her.”

“So then after?” He was still hesitant and so she smiled warmly to put him at ease, climbing upon him so she could rest her folded arms against his chest. “You are too fine a lover, Jon Snow, your peculiarities notwithstanding. You enjoy pleasuring a woman, a singular trait among men. There must have been others beside Ornela. Are you too shy to speak of such exploits?” she teased, leaning her face down to kiss a nipple.

“No, I just –” Again, he hesitated, facing away from her. Dany waited patiently.

“I was with someone I shouldn’t have been,” he finally answered, his voice hoarse. He still wouldn’t look at her.

“A whore?” she asked, thinking he would be the kind of virtuous man to find shame in it.

“No.” He took a breath. “The priestess.”

The woman’s face instantly appeared in her mind from their meeting on Dragonstone. Recalling how keen the priestess had been for her to meet Jon, she wondered if the attraction had been mutual. “You refer to the Lady Melisandre? The one you say raised you from death?” The answer seemed inherent in her statement, and she reflected on the power a woman might hold over a man she’d given life to.

“Yes. It was wrong of me.”

“But you were grateful, surely, and in her thrall for a time. She wrought powerful magic over you, Jon. It’s understandable that you would be drawn to her.”

He whipped his head to her, thunder in his face. “She burned a little girl alive,” he snarled, his disgust laid bare. “She burned a man I respected.”

The words landed like an accusation and Dany felt a sharp stab of anger for a startling second as she saw the bones of the shepherd’s girl on the steps of her throne room. “And did you know of these acts when you bed her?”

Jon shook his head. “Not of the Princess Shireen, no. But it’s no excuse.”

She sighed heavily, tracing one of his wounds with a delicate finger. She had punished Rhaegal and Viserion in their brother’s absence and had lost part of her connection to them because of it, only escalating the tragedy of it all. “You didn’t know, and yet you blame yourself for ... for what? She is a beautiful woman as I recall, and she gave you a unique gift, Jon. You did not burn the child yourself.”

“Let us stop talking about me,” he begged. Jon put his hand back to her cheek. “I’d rather hear about you. Tell me of your extraordinary achievements, Dany. Your tales are much more interesting than mine.”

“I think you’ve heard them all.”

“What about Meereen?” he asked. “What was it like to rule such a city after liberating the slaves? I imagine that was quite challenging, having to pacify the masters while trying to move them forward. I know only too well how much of an uphill struggle that can be. Resistance to change is brought on by fear, after all, and fear makes men violent.” He tilted his head. “You said something before about Sons of the Harpy, an attack in the fighting pits. They were insurgents?”

“Yes, those slavers who were unhappy with my new policies, men who hid behind masks and created havoc where they could. They ambushed my Unsullied and killed Ser Barristan.” She frowned at the reminder, seeing the great knight in repose after his death. Her voice grew hard. “Cowards, the lot of them. Too afraid to see the new world I was prepared to offer them, where all could prosper instead of the few who were born into it.”

“People don’t like it when you take away the only way of life they’ve ever known,” Jon said with a sad smile. “How were you able to defeat them?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know that I did. Opening the fighting pits again was meant to unify the inhabitants of the city and bring about peace. That did not turn out so well. I thought marriage would appease the old families but that was also a mistake.”

“Marriage?” Jon’s forehead creased as he studied her.

Strangely, Dany found herself blushing, her cheeks warming. “Oh. Yes. I was betrothed to a Ghiscari noble, head of an ancient house of slave traders. His name was Hizdhar zo Loraq. I used him as an ambassador to Yunkai once I’d taken Meereen, to deliver a message to the wise Masters there.” _They can live in my new world or die in their old one,_ she’d had Hizdhar tell them. “He did well there, and the Yunkai masters acceded to my rule, for a time, electing to create a council of freed slaves and former Masters. In thanks, I gave him a seat on my own council.”

“I see.” His tone was measured. “But you are not married now. What happened to him?”

“Well, the marriage never happened; he was killed before a wedding could take place. It was during the attack by the Harpies at the Great Games. Drogon saved me from their rebellion and took me back to the Dothraki.”

“Oh. I’m sorry for your loss then,” Jon offered.

“Don’t be,” she said dismissively, making a face as she drew more languorous circles around Jon’s scars. “It was hardly for love. Far from it, in fact. I think I mostly chose him out of a sense of … I don’t know, I suppose he was the least offensive of the lot. Perhaps I felt I owed him, for what happened to his father. And him being the sole master who didn’t beg for his life before my children certainly helped.”

“Beg for his life? I thought you said he was on your council. Did he betray you?”

She gave him a heated glance. “I told you, the Sons of the Harpy murdered Ser Barristan, as well as many of my Unsullied soldiers. I arrested the masters and brought them before Rhaegal and Viserion, to find out once and for all who was responsible. They all cowered like sheep but he managed to stand like a man, at least, even after my children had eaten one of their own. It seemed to suggest his innocence. So I chose him.” She shrugged at the folly of it all.

It was quiet for a few beats, Jon watching her carefully. She raised an eyebrow. “What? Surely you’re not jealous?”

His eyes widened. “No, of course not. He’s dead, you just said. I was merely remembering something Ornela said to me once.” He narrowed his gaze at her. “You really did feed them to your dragons?”

Dany gave him a knowing look. “They were terrible men, Jon Snow. What did you do to those who murdered you?”

Jon dropped his eyes down to where her fingers still played over his chest. “Is that what happened to Hizdhar’s father?”

“No, that was something else entirely.” Her jaw tensed at the remembrance. “When we first arrived just outside of Meereen, we were greeted by the sight of crosses along the road. For every mile we finished, another cross sat as a marker. And upon each cross, a slave child had been crucified, their arms bound to point the way towards the city. A terrible message meant specifically for me.”

Horror swept across Jon’s features. “Gods,” he gasped. “That sounds monstrous.”

She nodded bitterly in agreement, her shock from that moment returned in an instant. “The depth of their cruelty seemed unimaginable, but there it was in front of us, one hundred and sixty three children for us to witness as we rode on to the city’s walls. I had seen such things before, in the Walk of Punishment in Astapor. I remember walking up to one of them, a young man. He was still alive, his lips cracked and bleeding as he spluttered for water that he hadn’t had in days. Barely able to talk, yet begging for death. The sheer agony and suffering there in his face, it wouldn’t leave me for days after.”

“I suspect it stayed with you for longer than that,” he said. “As it would for anyone with a gentle heart, such as you possess yourself. How did you address such crimes once you took the city?”

“I had the children taken down and buried first,” she said, her anger sharp. “At least they would stop being food for carrion and have some dignity in death. And then I had the slave masters crucified in their place.”

It was quiet for a moment. “You what?”

“I had them crucified,” she repeated. "Just as they had done to those children. The Meereneese were obviously prone to a strong message.”

Jon studied her another few moments before speaking. “Aye, that would certainly send one.” He turned thoughtful. “And the man you almost married – his father had been one of the masters responsible for this? You said you owed him.”

“Oh, right.” Suddenly, Dany did not want to tell the story anymore, a fluttering sensation in her gut. “I – well, yes, his father was one of the crucified masters. Hizdhar came to me several weeks later to ask that he be allowed to bury him according to tradition. Apparently,” and she felt her face go hot again, “well, according to the son, at any rate, his father had been one of the few men who spoke out against the crucifixions before I arrived. So I granted him his request to take his father down.”

“Then … you did not know this already? You had no trials to determine who was responsible?”

“Trials?” she scoffed, rising to a seated position in his lap. “I had just seized power. You should know this better than any, Jon Snow. A ruler must deal swiftly with such atrocities. How many trials should I have held? One for each of those dead children? For every master in the city? How many months would that have gone on? I had to punish the collective, in one bold strike. I would have gotten rid of them all but my advisors suggested otherwise. I only stayed in Essos as long as I did so that those cities I conquered would not slide back into slavery. But make no mistake, it was a daily fight. Those who wish to make their riches off the backs of others will never disappear, but they must still be dealt with, Jon, you know this. It is why we must oust Cersei from Westeros. She divides the country, instead of bringing them together. The people need to heal.”

There was a stunned silence when she finished, Jon absorbing her words with his usual solemnity. He took a breath finally and dropped his gaze.

“And who decided which masters would be crucified?” he asked quietly.

Dany shrugged. “I let my soldiers choose. They were the ones who had to carry it out, after all.”

He nodded slowly, his grimness returned.

“You’re right. From a certain standpoint, I can understand why you had to make such a choice. I cannot comprehend people who see others as property. It is a shameful system. And perhaps, too insidious to defeat in one tug, root and stem. Man can be the cruelest beast, after all. I have seen my share of cruelty.” He paused in thought. “It is hard for me to get my mind past the Army of the Dead, I know that, but it is because they are so present for me. I am aware of what is at stake in the rest of the world, however. Westeros, nor any other continent, won’t find much healing if we can’t defeat them first.”

“I told you once, Jon, that strength can be terrible. But we must be strong, always. We cannot flinch from our duty. Nor our destiny.”

His head snapped up again, and she watched him gulp before speaking, with eyes that glistened.

“But Dany, there is a price we pay. How do we live with the cost? I told you I hanged a boy, a child still, and one not unknown to me. He was my steward, he wasn’t … evil. He was devastated. He came to the Night’s Watch after the wildlings slaughtered everyone in his village. Olly saw his parents murdered right in front of him. Can you imagine what that does to a child? My own sister went through it. And I know in my bones that there’s the possibility this child was made an orphan by the woman I loved. Or by a man I call my friend. She killed our kind, we killed her kind, and on and on it went, for thousands of years. And this boy, he was caught up in that, part of the violence that’s been passed down to every generation so that they must bear witness and commit these atrocities anew. It has to stop somewhere, Dany. I tried to explain to him why I was letting the wildlings through, even though they had butchered people he loved. But I failed him. His face was the last one I saw when he stabbed me through the heart. And now I see his face every night.”

Dany felt his anguish pour over her and she caressed his face tenderly. He was so good, a man worthy of her love, and she wished to soothe him. “And yet you still carried out his sentence, because you know that disloyalty and treason must be punished. This is what it means to rule. He betrayed you, Jon. You were in the right.”

“Don’t you see their faces still?”

“Whose faces?”

“Those whom you’ve wronged?”

A sudden scene of Mossadar begging her to look at him right before he was beheaded invaded her mind, but she cast it out. _Mhysa, please._

“You are as passionate as me, Jon Snow,” she said softly, stroking his bottom lip. “You care so deeply. It is why I am in love with you. Because you are a good man.”

Jon sucked in a breath, a sudden shock in his eyes. “What?”

“You heard me,” she said, dropping her face down to place a kiss upon that open mouth. When she pulled away, she saw the love he had for her shining there brightly.

“Dany, you must know –”

“ _Shhh,”_ she soothed, kissing him deeply again. “Lay back down,” she whispered against his lips, feeling a soft throb between her legs. “I wish for you to pleasure me again.”

Jon slid down on the bed and helped Dany climb over his face, his manic kisses already along her thigh.

* * *

“Well, that was an excellent supper. I do love a good lamprey pie,” Tyrion said, patting his belly with both hands as confirmation.

The conversation swirled around the room, but Jon’s attention was fixed on Daenerys, watching her throughout their dinner. Still basking in the glow from her attention all day, he sat at his end of the table cradling a wine glass by the bowl as he imagined her spread out before him, right where his plate sat, with the rest of them watching on with gaping mouths if need be. He would much rather be feasting on her than the foul meal they’d been served.

Tyrion glanced over at him with his own wine in hand. “No appetite this evening, Lord Snow? For your supper, that is.”

Jon didn’t rise to the bait. The wine had been flowing all evening and Tyrion had captured much of it. “I’m afraid I didn’t care much for the pie,” he explained with a wry smile. “A bit strange for my taste. I’m not used to eating such things from the sea.”

“Now that is strange, as I distinctly heard you had a predilection for pie.”

Dany coughed savagely into her hand, her sight cast down to the table. She took a quick sip of her wine when she finished, her skin flushed pink as she avoided his gaze.

“It depends on what’s in the pie,” Jon sallied back. He took another sip from his glass as he kept his gaze on Dany. Even the skin of her bare shoulders had turned pink.

“That’s interesting. I do believe my stomach has been able to consume most everything,” Tyrion said. “So many wonderful tastes to experience, such variety, from all over the world. I’ve been very fortunate to have acquired such an eclectic palate.”

“Yes, you’re a lucky man,” Varys added smoothly. “Tis’ a pity those delicacies were often so cheaply made they almost destroyed you.”

“Well, as a wise man once told me, there’s no accounting for _good_ taste, is there?”

“And there’s still dessert to come,” Davos said, trying to contain his amusement as he leaned forward on crossed arms, the servants clearing his plate away. “I will look forward to hearing your ruminations on that course, Lord Tyrion.”

“Perhaps we should leave that for Jon Snow to comment on,” Tyrion rejoined. “I’m sure he knows an exceptional dessert when he eats it.”

“And I’m sure you know when a jape goes too far, my lord Hand,” Daenerys snapped, sharing a stern look with him before dropping her gaze to his wine.

“Your Grace, my sincerest apologies if my epicurean adventures have upset you. We shall speak of other things, immediately.” He looked beseechingly around the table. “Lord Varys, I believe you had some troubling information from Astapor to report.”

“Again?” Dany sounded in irritation. “I thought we got rid of Cleon the Butcher.”

“Well, without the Unsullied there, Your Grace, I’m afraid it’s been a bit difficult to leave the patrolling solely up to the Second Sons. They are spread thin,” Varys noted coolly. “There are those who attempt to retake the city routinely now that you are here. An attempt to bring in more sell swords by your ... er, the current ruling body in Meereen, did not end well and there was an outbreak of civil unrest. What began as a skirmish resulted in a massacre, with over a hundred souls dead. And to add to the chaos, disease has flourished and taken hold of the city, with many more dying from sickness.”

Dany groaned at the news. “I don’t want to hear of this right now.” She flashed her eyes towards Ser Davos and Jon saw a roiling intensity in her gaze before she turned to address Varys. “What is happening in Volantis, I’d like to know. Lord Varys, you said the High Priestess from the Red Temple came to visit with you and Lord Tyrion after he summoned her. Before the masters chose to renege on his pact and attack the city from the Bay of Dragons, she said their followers would rally behind me and give me their support. What does that translate to, exactly?”

Varys stiffened in his seat, Jon noticed, but his expression remained bland. “She promised to help but I think her service was merely in the message she and her red priests were able to spread, telling their believers that you will lead them against the darkness in this war,” Varys eyed Jon suddenly, “and in the _Great_ War still to come, apparently.” He turned away and addressed the rest of the guests, enjoying the attention of his audience, from the looks of it. “She spoke in prophecies, so who knows whether they meant anything at all. I don’t think we can expect much more from their ilk other than to tout your name as the people’s savior. Hardly a defense against upstarts and disease, but useful to be sure.”

“She spoke in more than prophecies, as I recall,” Tyrion said merrily, his drunkenness becoming more noticeable in his speech. “I believe she bandied about a few threats, as well. She knew some truths about us both. Varys almost pissed his pants; you should have seen his face. She said that you, my queen, were reborn from fire to remake the world,” he spouted dramatically, making Jon’s pulse race to hear the way others spoke of her. “Your dragons were fire made flesh and they would purify the non-believers by the thousands, burning their sins and flesh away. Not a pretty picture, I’m afraid,” he finished in a deep baritone. “Perhaps we should leave that nest alone.”

“She spoke in the language of all fanatics,” Varys said in emphasis. “With distortion and hyperbole.”

Again, Jon grew uncomfortable with the turn in the discussion. It was every night with these two and he had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes.

“And what of the Lady Melisandre?” Dany asked, making Jon freeze in his seat. He snapped his head up to regard her but her eyes were on Varys. “Isn’t she there as well?”

“According to her; yes, I suppose. Would you have me send her a message, Your Grace?”

“You think this priestess might help us?” Ser Jorah asked her.

Dany raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow when she finally turned to Jon. “Well, we know she can do more than speak in hyperbole. We have the proof of her power sitting right at our table.”

Jon felt the need to protest when Davos suddenly spoke.

“You don’t want to involve her, Your Grace,” he said in warning. “She’s done enough damage.”

“Damage?” Tyrion questioned. “Surely you don’t consider Jon Snow being alive as something damaged?” He waved a hand towards Jon, eyes widening. “Unless there’s something you’re not telling us about him. Did he come back with an extra nipple, perhaps?” Jon clenched his teeth, getting annoyed with the way he was being discussed as if he weren’t seated there with them.

“No, bringing him back was the only good thing she’s ever done. But all the rest – she burned men and women back on Dragonstone, Your Grace, those who wouldn’t follow her religion. Stannis may have given the order, but from her urging, and she carried them out with pleasure. She manipulates people. She’s an evil woman.”

“Do you think that, my lord?” Suddenly, Dany looked towards Jon with eyes gleaming, and it seemed in that instant she sought some reassurance from him. Having confessed that he’d lain with the red woman, he imagined that Dany was worried he still had some fascination for her. He didn’t know what she was hoping for in his answer but he caught the soft pulse of fragility in her countenance and chose his words carefully.

“I think that … she genuinely believes in what she is doing as a devotee to her god. She’s said that she can only interpret the signs her lord gives her and has admitted to making mistakes. I’ve … seen her brought low. Her faith was shaken when Stannis lost. It is easy to toss around words that paint others as … inhuman. But the truth is always more complicated.”

“Spoken like a true centrist,” Tyrion quipped with some glee. “Always best to play both sides. I approve. Pity you didn’t take that stance in the Dragon Pit with my sister.”

“I’m not playing at anything,” Jon argued, feeling his annoyance spike. “This isn’t a game.”

“So you think she still has some use to us?” Varys asked in an oily manner. “That she can represent us in Volantis with their followers? Or did you have something else in mind?”

“I agree with Ser Davos,” Brienne interjected. “That woman is not trustworthy, by any stretch. I’ve seen her magic.” Brienne shot a glance to Jon before speaking to the rest. “She sent a shadow with Stannis’s face to murder his brother. It happened right in front of me. We should not be engaging this woman to do anything on the queen’s behalf.”

“The king,” Davos started off heatedly before abruptly realizing his mistake. He bent his head in deference to Daenerys. “Forgive me, Your Grace. _Lord Snow_ issued a warrant for her arrest and subsequent hanging if she ever shows her face again. He understands that she should remain in Volantis, with her kind, not causing trouble here in Westeros. Religion has only fractured this country further after years of war had already split it apart. Look at the violence waged in King’s Landing after the revival of the Faith Militant. The Sparrows spread fear among the city’s inhabitants and filled the black cells until even Cersei saw fit to blow them up. The road forward is a secular one,” he said passionately. “We’re facing an army of dead men. You can’t get any more literal than that.”

“So you don’t think magic can save us?” Dany queried. “What of my dragons?”

“Your dragons aren’t an ideology,” Davos returned.

Jon’s head was beginning to pound, brought on by a combination of the wine and the discourse. He hated when these dinner conversations turned political and wanted to leave, to disappear into Dany’s body back in her stateroom. There would be plenty of opportunity for contentious debate once they were all in Winterfell. Thinking of the reception he was likely to get once they arrived, Jon sighed loudly, just as a thunderous boom sounded from above, spooking a few of them. He felt his stomach drop as their ship plunged at the bow. Plates slid across the table and there were more surprised cries from the group.

“Perhaps that is a sign we should bench this argument for another time,” he suggested with a weary smile as another clap of thunder rumbled overhead, the candles flickering rapidly with the ship’s movement. “Plus, the dessert has arrived with the storm.” Servants had entered the room with cautious steps as they carried in cake to those seated. 

“It seems we’re in for a rocky night,” Tyrion said. “All that forceful oscillating on the sea will surely keep us awake; although, I imagine some of us are quite used to such motions by now.”

Jon clenched his jaw again, prepared to say something rude when another voice cut in.

“I remember being on a ship once during a terrible storm,” Missandei said.

He opened his eyes to see her glaring at Tyrion, everyone else at the table staring at her.

“It happened when I was very little. When I had been stolen by slavers they threw me into the hold with many other children and some of the women. The storm came upon us most sudden and the ship was tossed about so violently that it felt as if the wooden beams down below might rip apart, to drop us into the bowels of the sea. The children cried for their mothers, while the women did the best that they could to console them. But the greater the wind and thunder beat against the hull, the more it made me think of the monsoons we had back in Naath, when I would sit and watch from our window as the rains pelted our house like stones and my mother would sing hymns to comfort me. I knew I would never see my mother again. The boat rocked so wildly, I imagined I was in the belly of a great whale, and that I had been eaten. And that to be eaten, meant I no longer had to be afraid. I curled up in a corner and slept right through it.”

It was quiet when she finished, an awkward pall hanging over the guests.

Then Dany took hold of Missandei’s hand and squeezed it, her smile tender and beautiful. “You shall return to your home one day soon, my friend. This I promise you.”

Jon’s heart beat faster, a lump in his throat but his headache forgotten.

* * *

“You’re like a raging fire back there,” Daenerys said from the front as she sat up to separate them, fanning herself with a hand.

Jon strapped an arm across her collarbone and pulled her back against his chest. “So says the Unburnt,” he rumbled into her ear. “Have you never noticed how warm you are all the time? Besides, I thought you wanted the water nice and hot.”

“I do believe I have a cooler seat on the back of Drogon,” she said as she rolled around in his arms in their narrow tub. She grinned up at him and flung arms about his neck, her breasts sliding against him as she rose up for a kiss. Jon ran wet hands down her back to glide them over her bum.

“I’ll be the judge of this seat,” he said, squeezing such luscious flesh in his grasp, “and whether it’s the appropriate temperature or not.”

“Hmm,” she hummed as pretended to be deep in thought. “Warden of the North _and_ Tender of the Queen’s Rump, are you sure that’s not too much responsibility?”

He laughed loudly. “I think I can manage.” He dragged her up closer so that her sex was pressed up against his, the two of them slippery porpoises in their little bath like the ones he’d seen making perfect leaps out of a gleaming blue ocean, schools of them. “Although there’s quite a lot of it here to take care of,” he remarked with a smile. Her arse was complete heaven and he fondled its fullness again.

“So says Jon Snow, he of the glorious backside,” she teased. “Although a bit sore, perhaps. Are you sure you don’t want to be laying on me?”

Jon felt a strong spark of arousal rush through him at the reminder. After the evening had ended with the dessert and last of the wine, Jon and Dany had both been eager to get back to her room, Dany chasing away her Unsullied guards to let him escort her. She had deemed it pointless to bother with any pretense when her Hand was making jokes about their nightly trysts. They had barely gotten behind her door before she was tugging at his gear to break him free, his hands working simultaneously to get her out of her dress.

“You were in a mood tonight,” she’d muttered as she had helped him take off his boots.

“I was?” He had thought himself impervious to the needling of Tyrion and Varys in appearance at least.

“You didn’t like it when I mentioned the Lady Melisdandre.” Dany had noted coyly.

But he hadn’t really minded, the name had simply jarred him. “It was your prerogative to discuss her with your council. It doesn’t matter what I like or not.”

Dany’s eyelashes had fanned down upon her cheeks so exquisitely as she removed a boot. “Did you do the same things to her as you do to me?” she had asked with some hesitancy.

Immediately, Jon’s mind went to his sister’s body and a fire burned through him as that old shame returned, so easily summoned. He couldn’t pretend this time just who it was he was referring to. “Yes,” he’d admitted.

Dany had looked up at him, guarded. “Did you like being with her?”

Again, he had seen Sansa’s face and the truth had stared back at him. He’d let things go on as long as they did because on some primal level, he’d wanted her. “Yes,” he’d said aloud, the word buried in his disgust with himself.

She must have seen something in his eyes, for her next question had stunned him. “Should I get the belt?”

And Jon had felt so much gratitude to hear her that he’d hugged her in answer. This woman knew what he needed. He’d eagerly agreed and they’d prepared for it, but when he’d lain on his back towards the end of her bed, she’d tenderly caressed his thigh. “No, my love. You’ve abused this area too much. It needs to heal. Roll over on your stomach. Let me work on some new flesh.”

So he had. The belt had sent the backs of his thighs a soaring blaze in a strip of punishing fire, but she had gone further to both his indebtedness and mortification. His arse still thudded its message from that lashing. Yet Jon had felt so free, so light, once she was done, that he’d wanted to repay her for that freedom. He’d taken her with a force that had left both of their bodies trembling once they’d finished. He’d fallen asleep, sated and safe, and when he’d awakened, the bath had been waiting.

“I am perfectly comfortable, right here,” he said, his smile fully content as he gazed in her eyes. She loved him. And what could be more glorious than that?

Dany put a hand up to his hair to brush an idle curl away. “I never did get to see you in Zhiqi’s handiwork. Should I have Missandei braid your hair when she does mine? Or perhaps I should do it myself?”

He grinned, his arms crossed low on her back where he held her. “All this fascination with plaits in one’s hair. I’m no Dothraki. I’m afraid I’m a Northerner, through and through. But,” he swept up a dripping hand to cradle the back of her head, the drops peppering the bathwater as the rain lashed their porthole from outside, “I should be curious to see my queen without these ropes about her head, but her hair flowing, as freely as her smile.”

Dany screwed up her mouth as she attempted to refrain from her wit. “Had you been working on that one?” she finally asked with a snort, before falling into giggles.

“Shut up, you. I never professed to being a wordsmith,” he admitted, laughing with her.

“Aha, I’ve finally discovered a fault!” she crowed in glee. He smacked her bottom and she laughed in delight. She sat up to lean away from him. Most of her plaits hung down to below the water, although some had been pinned to the top of her head. “All right, then. I’ll let you take them down. Missandei had planned to wash my hair tomorrow anyway. She was annoyed that all my nights have been taken, lately.”

“Missandei? She does not strike me as one who would bear any annoyance with her queen, whatsoever. You are lucky to have her.” Jon liked her very much, as she was a woman reserved like him, but when she spoke, it was always with thoughtfulness and a deep reflection.

“Don’t I know it. She is my closest and dearest friend. I don’t know what I would have done without her to advise me, through many situations.”

“You seem to have done alright,” he teased.

“Oh, is it merely al – Ah!”

Dany screamed as their bath suddenly slid about a foot behind them, thunder bellowing loudly overhead as the black circle at their window lit up. Jon grabbed hold of her, but the bath stopped moving as suddenly as it had begun. They both looked at each other for a moment before her mouth opened wide with her peals of pleasure, her laughter resounding through the room like a bright song. Giggles slid over him like melted butter and Jon grinned so hard, his face hurt. She was a marvel.

“Maybe its best you hold on –” he began before the bath slid in the other direction. This time they both burst into gales of laughter and Jon felt freer than he’d ever been. Her utter giddiness in that instant was infectious, and Jon wanted to forget the dead, forget his sister, forget everything, just to live in this moment with her.

“This is quite a storm,” she said, once their laughter died down. “Hopefully, we shall arrive in White Harbor all the faster with these winds.”

“Let us hope our little dinghy here doesn’t get tipped over in the meantime,” he joked. “I’ll find something to block its movement.”

He climbed out of the tub carefully, extricating himself from her limbs, and then pad about the room dripping on her floor as he sought something bulky to keep them in place. Eventually, he moved one of her chests behind them, its weight significant. As he prepared to climb back in, he caught a look at her face, saw the hunger and desire there as she watched him move about. He paused, acknowledging that she wanted him with a flick of his mouth. “That should keep us stationary,” he said.

“My hero,” she quipped, her smile kind.

When he stepped back in, Dany shifted backwards, up on her knees, the space tight, but before he could slide down to sit with her she had curled her arms around him at the thighs, locking them at his rear end, while she gazed up at him with nothing short of complete dominance. She leaned over to place a kiss at the top of a thigh, near his groin, and Jon groaned at the sensation. He put a hand at the top of her head to stop her.

“Dany, let us finish. We have the rest of the night.”

“You can do my hair later,” she said roughly. “I want you now.”

“Alright,” he said softly, extending a hand to her. “Let me help you out.”

“No, you go get on the bed,” she instructed, with a nod in its direction.

Jon chuckled at the command. “I’m soaking wet, Dany. Let me get a cloth to wipe down.”

“No. Now. I don’t care about the sheets getting wet.”

There, in her eyes, was something that got him going like few things could, his body responding to her instantly. He got out of the tub again and strode soddenly to the bed, turning to sit at its end.

“Right here?” he asked.

She sat up straighter, with her shoulders back as she folded arms across the tub’s rim. “Turn around. Get on all fours. I should like to look upon you.”

His grin was slow as he glanced to his knees, the heat in his face belying his amusement. “All right. If that is what you wish.”

But as he stretched across her bed, supporting himself on his hands, he recalled Sansa asking him to do the same, remembered how she had handled his body as she had fought to find some control of it. He heard the sound of water splashing, heard Dany step out and across the wooden floor to stand behind him. When he felt her touch on the small of his back he jerked from the tension.

“Spread your legs a bit,” her voice said from behind him. Jon was already so hard for her, his cock like a pendulum between his legs as his knees widened. Her hand slid down and she cupped the cheek of one side of his arse. “Can you feel it, where I struck you? Does it still hurt?”

“Not anymore,” he told her with gravel in his throat, his need so great and his desire for her overwhelming him.

And then he felt her soft lips where her hand had been. She kissed him there, and continued to kiss him, leaving them where any welt may have been. Jon closed his eyes and lost himself to the intense pleasure of it, to have her near to the instrument that awaited her touch. When her fingers finally wrapped around the length of him, his groan came from a place so deep within him he shuddered. Dany’s kisses turned to licks, her tongue bathing him as she began to stroke him. A press of her thumb between his balls had him jolt again, and this time Dany’s tongue found a new spot.

“Whoa!” he cried, his waist dropping down in an instant so that his belly hit the mattress. He looked behind him in shock. Dany sat back on her knees and regarded him patiently.

“Erm, what are you doing?”

“What did it feel like I was doing?”

Jon’s face and his whole body burned but he didn’t know how to answer her. “Uhhh,” he left into the air.

“I was exploring you,” she offered, her tone regal. “Am I not allowed to explore that which is mine? Or are you not mine?”

His blush deepened. “Of course I am. My life is yours, my sword is yours –”

“All your swords?” she asked, an eyebrow arched so high it appeared as its own question.

“Especially that sword, but Dany, where you go is not really a place meant for kissing,” he said with some understanding of her games, ready to laugh at her boldness.

“You do it to me all the time,” she whipped back.

“Right, but you’re a woman.”

“And? That applies to this how?” Her hunger had returned and Jon didn’t know what else to say in the face of it. “Why do you do it?”

Because he wanted to devour her. “Because I want you to feel good.”

“Alright, so you know how it feels then.”

“I don’t,” he cleared.

“So then how do you know it feels good?”

He was flustered by her questions. “I – I can see by the response.”

“And you somehow knew you would get that response? Or you felt permission to explore a woman’s body and determine what might satisfy her for yourself?”

“I – I don’t know what I’m meant to say.”

“Do you trust me?” she asked, and Jon felt that strong pull towards her, right from his center.

“Of course I do. With my life.”

“Good. And I wish for you to feel good.” Dany's eyes softened as she leaned over and pressed a hand to his hip. “I don’t want you to pine for a dark place, Jon Snow. I want to send you to a place full of light and of love.”

Jon swallowed deeply, feeling a rush of emotion. “I would like that,” he croaked.

She smiled sweetly to him. “Turn back around then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know in the books that Dany actually married Hizdar, but they left it sort of open in the series. Everything I looked up seemed to indicate that they never actually got to the married part before he took a javelin in the gut at the games. I tended to believe this as well. YMMV


	30. III: Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all. 
> 
> A few notes on this chapter. I've been asked several times in the comments if I'm going to change things from the ending we got in the show. Yes and no. Obviously, I've made some major differences already, but I've been quite transparent in my tags about following major canon events of the series, hence these: #this isn't a fix it fic #will follow the show from 6x09 on #i'm sticking to canon but will look to fill in the gaps left amidst all that teleporting #with my own debased ideas.
> 
> That last one is really important. This is a dark story, I've noted that. It's not a feel-good fic about people in love, where everyone makes the right choice, and who is good and who is bad is very clearly defined. I'm more interested in the likely reactions from people who've been through horrible situations, what it looks like if things are realistically portrayed within fantastical scenarios. And certainly, we've seen some very heightened sexual encounters between Jon and Sansa, and that continues with Jon and Dany here. I will reiterate that there is plenty I have planned for this fic beyond the end of the series, as that was one of the motivators to write this, albeit from a very warped lens.
> 
> Thank you to mimreads for her beta work. UPDATED with ARTWORK. The intertwined sigil says it all. Here be dragons (Jon/Dany).
> 
> tw: mentions of needles
> 
> Credit to Dave Hill for some of the dialogue appearing out of 8x01, "Winterfell".

**.xxx**

“Ser Davos, might I have a word?”

Davos spun around from his post up on the quarterdeck, where he’d been eyeing the overcast horizon from his spyglass. To his dismay, the queen stood behind him, looking radiant in her winter’s garb, the fur that fanned around her collar in the breeze softening her face so that she appeared girlish for a breath. Then an eyebrow rose in expectation, a queen awaiting a response. 

“Absolutely, Your Grace. How may I be of service?” he said, bending his head in deference while stepping away from the ship’s railing. 

“Will you walk with me?” Daenerys turned towards the bow without waiting for an answer and Davos quickly fell in step next to her. She was a tiny thing, really, but her presence felt huge. Plaits were coiled at the back of her head in a great heap, while tendrils of her platinum hair hung by her face. The fur of her dress was only a shade whiter, with a bold black streak down the back of it, and her gloves a ruddy red like the stain of blood across weathered stone that had faded over the years.

“And how are you faring this dreary morning? The wind has a bite to it now that we’re so close to our destination, but the rains haven’t helped.” The storms were a sign, Davos felt, and they did not portend anything good. He’d had a knot in his gut since they’d hit rough waters several nights ago.

“I have had a taste of the North’s extremes already. I survived,” she stated easily. “Although, I imagine it’s been a similar experience for you, Ser Davos, having to adjust to such a harsh climate once you decided to serve a king in the North.”

“Aye, it did take some getting used to. Dragonstone is nothing but a rock in the middle of the ocean without a lot to entertain ye, but the seasons are temperate and the waters warm. That time is over now, though. Winter is here and we will all soon come to know how unrelenting it can be.”

She had kept her gaze on the ground as they walked, and her mood seemed introspective. “It’s not just the Stark’s house words, I hear. That such inclemency extends to Jon’s people,” she said before glancing up at him, the violet in her eyes so striking it cast an ethereal glow in her face. “Or do I have it wrong? Are they more like him?”

He cocked his head. “In what way, Your Grace? Northerners are certainly not known for their gift of the tongue, if that’s what you suggest. Jon can be quiet, but that trait doesn’t indicate a lack of thought, by any means.”

“I have discovered for myself that such pensiveness leads to a sound wisdom in him, Ser Davos. Jon is nothing if not a deeply thoughtful person. But he has many other qualities that make him quite remarkable, don’t you think?”

Davos turned to regard her, but she had looked away to the choppy sea, the whitecaps like snowy molehills across the waves. “I do, Your Grace. He’s loyal, he’s a man of his word, and he’s a damn fine swordsman. But he also possesses that rare ability to unite people and remind them what’s important. He understands what drives most of us and he knows how to speak to that.”

The snap of the sails above them as the boom swung portside seemed to emphasize his point and she halted her steps to face him. “Do you think his return has changed him?” she asked.

With a worried brow, Davos considered the reasons behind her question. What had she seen?

“Of course I do,” he said. “How could it not? But it's had no impact on his ability to lead, if that’s your concern. I hadn’t known him for very long before he was killed, yet in the time I’ve spent with him since I’ve seen only the most sparing differences. If anything, it’s only emboldened him to challenge those around him in their refusal to see past old enmities. He understands better than any of us what’s waiting on the other side and it drives him relentlessly, his need to save us all.”

“I don’t question his effectiveness to help me lead his people, Ser Davos. I can see his integrity clearly enough for myself. But as a close advisor, you’ve had a unique perspective. I … worry that Jon has … _tendencies_. Ones that may hurt him. There is a darkness in him that lingers, a space in him which I fear I cannot reach. I only wish to help him. He is … he’s important to me.”

Davos felt the chill as he recalled Jon’s state on their travels to Dragonstone. It was disturbing to think any of those habits were still ongoing when Jon had been focused so deeply on Daenerys. He thought of Lady Sansa and wondered again for the umpteenth time what exactly had gone on there, but it had seemed like Jon had worked past those troubles in recent weeks. The young king had been the happiest he’d ever seen him and Davos was eager to inform her of that fact.

“Your Grace, Jon has had some turmoil, but the change in him since he’s met you has been a transformation. You’ve been good for him,” he confessed with some urgency. “He’s so much better just in the time we’ve been on this ship.”

She frowned, however, at the revelation, although it did nothing to dampen her beauty, merely accentuated her cheekbones. “So what he says is true then.”

Panic flooded him. “What did he say?”

But she shook it off. “Oh, nothing. Just a comment. He’s very complex, isn’t he? So much history he holds in those eyes.”

They resumed walking as Davos smiled in relief. “Aye, he does. Your warden can be a mysterious one, Your Grace, but he’s also predictable in his decency.”

“That he is,” she agreed. Her mouth dropped into another frown. “Ser Davos, Jon has mentioned this king beyond the Wall a few times. I suspect the man played something of a mentor to him. I assumed from Jon’s tales that he’d died, but it wasn’t immediately clear just what happened to him.”

That rage at Melisandre’s cruelty flushed through him for a brief second before he controlled it. He’d said his piece to the queen already on that woman. 

“The short answer is that he was burned at the stake,” he told her evenly. “Our army came to the aid of the Night’s Watch after a night of brutal fighting and Mance Rayder was taken prisoner. Stannis offered him a choice, to bend the knee and have the wildlings fight with us, as we prepared to march against Bolton’s forces. Or die. The man refused to serve him and so the Lady Melisandre set fire to him. Another sacrifice to her Lord of Light.”

She pondered his words, the wind beginning to howl as it picked up some speed the only sound around them. “And where was Jon during all of this,” she eventually asked.

It was Davos’s turn to frown. “I thought he had left, at first; that he had refused to stand witness as the flames reached higher. Then an arrow shot loose from above us, piercing Mance’s heart just as his screams began in earnest. We all turned, and there was Jon on the stairs, bow in hand.”

Daenery had her eyes on their feet again and said nothing at first. Davos began to wonder if perhaps he shouldn’t have said anything. They finally came to the hatch where the steps would take her below. 

“I see,” she said quietly. Then she turned to him, the light back in her face as she smiled warmly. “I want to thank you, Ser Davos. You have been most helpful.”

“Any time, Your Grace, although I don’t know that I offered much.” He was curious then, to know what she’d hoped to hear from him. “Jon’s not like the rest of us,” he added, wanting to acknowledge it.

There was a sudden dark flash in her eyes and Davos’s neck crimped with a tickling heat. “Outside of a queen, that is,” he quickly amended. “I can’t imagine any man more suited to the Mother of Dragons.”

“I appreciate that, Ser Davos,” she answered, the stiffness in her face softening a fraction. “I agree that Jon is very different than most men. Do enjoy the rest of your walk.”

She left him topside as she made her way to the cabins below. Davos felt the ship lurch hard on the waves and grabbed hold of the ropes by his head to keep him steady, the storm back in his thoughts as he wondered what havoc might be unleashed once they made land.

* * *

Jon was floating.

Reams of color streamed past him as his body rode another wave of euphoria, his head bobbing as though cool water lapped around his ears. Dany descended again and he felt the snug grip of her throat, her fingers moving deeper until he felt the pleasure spread inside him like veins of lightning shooting across a night sky.

“Oh, _Gods!”_ he groaned loudly, any control over what came out of his mouth completely to the winds as the words felt dragged out of him. “You’re amazing,” he gasped as she did it again.

Dany raised her head with a great breath and looked him squarely in the eye. A wicked grin slowly made its way across that clever visage. She twisted her fingers and Jon’s hips jolted off the bed, the rest of him squirming under her touch.

“There are no gods here,” she told him. “I’m the one making you feel this way, Jon Snow. Remember that.”

“Dany,” he breathed, reaching for her before she tongued a swath of skin from the blackened marks inside of his thigh to the underside of his cock, the latter so hard it felt marbleized but for the constant heat that pulsed through it. 

“Put your hands over your head,” she purred, “and spread your knees wider, my love.”

He moved without thought, holding on to his wrist as he flopped both arms above him, and watched in fascination as her head went down again, bobbing at a faster pace this time with both of her fingers pumping in time to her mouth’s journey. Jon’s body burned for her, the sounds of the way she suckled him right out of a dream. Dany gripped him at the root while her other hand worked, but as she made her way down to take more of him, fingers slid softly across his pubis, nails scratching at the wiry hair there before a palm caressed his belly, where his nerves were clamoring, greedy for her touch. When her throat constricted around him again Jon saw the colors rush in, a smattering of stars across the backdrop of his vision. 

“Fucking hell. Dany, please, let me be part of this,” he begged, his legs trembling violently. He wanted her so much. “Let me feast on you.”

Her eyes snapped up to look at him again, and then she raised her head, her lips easing off of him slowly until her tongue was swirling around the bell-end of him with such mastery Jon thought he might actually pass out from watching her. She kissed the soft glans with pouting lips, lightly dragged her teeth across it while his body jerked at the sensation, another gasp at the shock of how sweet it felt.

“You want me to climb upon your mouth while I do this?” A smile that knew his answer beamed back at him.

“More than my life,” he croaked, the desire to have his tongue fused to her cunt greater than his need for air.

“And if I do so – you will do something for me, yes?”

He sucked in a sharp breath. He knew what she wanted.

“I – I will. Whatever you need me to do.” Jon thought back to that first introduction a few nights ago. “Perhaps … one a bit smaller?” he requested gently. She had said it belonged to her, that she routinely put the object inside her when she had need of it to mimic a man, and that had certainly intrigued him at first, with its suggestion of a shared closeness. He had avoided looking Tyrion in the eye the next day.

“Don’t worry, dear, I’ve stretched you a bit. It will feel much better this time. Trust me.”

“Oh. All right then.”

She had saved him, he couldn’t refuse her. The growing shout in his head continued to remind him of his dirty secret, forcing him to acknowledge that if he could allow his own sister to do what she’d wanted to his body, then he had no choice but to allow it for Daenerys. He loved her. He would give her everything.

But when Dany laid her body over his, Jon’s arms instantly wrapped around the swell of her arse and crushed her sweet cunt to his face, his mouth ready to receive her. She was so wet for him and Jon groaned as he circled his chin, smearing her across his cheeks, his beard, his nose, he didn’t care, wanting the smell of her to seep into his skin. He would bring forth a gully, his tongue already working through folds as thin as lace, caught in the vestibule like a child trying to lick every bit of frosting out of a bowl. A squeal sounded at the other end and that only drove him harder, made him raise his head to smother her bits with his mouth and warm breaths, to split the seam of her arse and delve into that radiant heat. Through a hazy cloud, he felt her pat the inside of a thigh and Jon opened it wider at her demand, just as she wrapped those plump lips around the fucking steel standing between his legs for her, a pillar of throbbing need that wanted to be buried inside of her till the end of his days.

“Wait for me, my darling,” she called breathlessly, and at the same moment she seemed to inhale him into her throat again Jon felt her breach him with her slickened wand, the pressure from both happening at once threatening to send him over the edge. Light crackled across his brain, it felt like, her enthusiasm in pleasuring him only goading him to return that light in kind. He grunted against her skin, his tongue moving faster, his lips kissing all of her, everywhere he could reach, while she writhed and hummed, her tongue a match to his own, and Jon had never felt so connected to another in his life, feeling as if he and Dany had slipped inside of each other’s skin.

So lost in the sensations was he, his arms still holding her to him, it took a moment for him to realize she had stopped and was dragging herself away from his face to straddle his torso.

“Come back,” he moaned for her, reaching for her waist, but then she was turning her body around and out of his grasp.

“Jon, I need you in me,” she whined and he was in agreement, ready to weep he was so desperate to fuck her. As she positioned herself lower, however, she did not remove the hefty weight from the cavity where it dwelled, but held on to its base, her arm behind her as she slowly settled down upon his cock. Sparks shot through him and he fought to take a long breath, knowing he wouldn’t be able to wait for her if he couldn’t get control of himself. She cried out as she settled onto him, already beginning to move while she tweaked the thing lodged inside him, her fist up against his balls.

“Oh, fuck! Dany, stop! Don’t move for a moment,” he pleaded, out of breath and his heart beating out of his chest. “Please. I just need a minute.”

“Are you alright?” she asked, sounding worried.

“I’m fine,” he wheezed. “Just – don’t move.”

She sat and watched him while Jon took a pause, tried to pull his head away so the air might cool this fever which swept through him. Being this close to her always brought on such a blistering heat, as though they might set each other ablaze, that he felt slightly suffocated by it. He pulsed inside her, a twin to the violent pumping of his heart, and that pulse spread to his arse where she still had him penetrated, by a golden shaft she had thrust into her own twat on plentiful occasions, she’d said, and it seemed for a moment that every pore in his skin was emitting a series of tiny screams to keep his body vibrating. It was all overwhelming. Jon closed his eyes and took a steadying breath.

“Better?” he heard her ask after a moment, followed by a squeeze from her cunt. He groaned aloud, those buttery walls a tight sheath which sent him soaring again.

“Yes, continue,” he uttered raggedly. As soon as she began to rock over him again, Jon grabbed for her hips, held her fast to him so that he could feel every grind in her movements. After a few minutes of her gyrations, his knees widened as he raised his seat from the bed, heels digging into the mattress and legs angled stiffly while Dany let out a startled cry. A snarl came from his throat, fingers digging into her soft flesh as he brought her down on his hard cock, so hard he thought it might shatter, while the thrusts he pounded upwards and into her began to set a punishing pace. He imagined her womb, wanted to crawl into that space and be nurtured by it, but more than that Jon wanted to fill her with his seed – buckets of it, hot, piping jism which would shoot into her until it dripped from her cunt – wanted to bind her to him forever by putting a baby in her belly. It came up swiftly, this sudden need, but it filled him with such strength that he roared from the power of it. He would have her, needed her; he was meant to be with her. Jon knew these things as sure as he knew the North, and it drove him like a man with nothing to lose.

Dany screamed, a gorgeous sound that rang in his head, and he saw the ecstasy land in her face the moment before he felt his release upon him, the clench of his arsehole around solid gold while fire pumped through his cock a feeling like none he’d ever experienced. The world turned white for a second, a blinding light that burned her away, and then she returned, her eyes shut in pleasure but moans pouring forth like the sweetest raven caws.

As soon as he was done, all of his strength evaporated and his muscles trembled, his body feeling boneless as he let himself drop. Dany gave another shout as they landed, the two of them gasping as they struggled for breath. She turned wearily around and Jon suddenly felt that weight vacate his body and he watched, fascinated, as she held the shaft between her breasts, holding it as if it were some religious relic and she in prayer. He narrowed his gaze, wondering what in the seven hells she was doing, and then her body drooped sideways, sliding off of him as melted snow sloughed down a hill. Her body thumped to the bed next to his with a great _whoosh_ and the two of them lay there, stunned, Jon imagining her body still tingling with his.

It was quiet for several minutes, only their heaving breaths filling the room.

“Well,” Jon finally spoke, clearing his throat. “That was interesting.”

They both burst into giggles at the same time.

He tried to stifle them, to keep them quiet as if their cries of ecstasy hadn’t been heard round the bloody boat, but Dany’s giggles grew louder, a very un-queenly snort coming from her which only made them both laugh harder.

“Shut up,” he scolded, grinning so hard he felt a fool, but he couldn’t contain it. The frivolity he had with her gave him such a respite from all that he knew was waiting for them in Winterfell, and he grabbed it greedily, allowing himself these moments to shore up for the tough times ahead.

She rolled over to lean across his chest. “You dare to tell your queen to shut it?” she teased with another laugh. “I might have to spank you for such impertinence.”

“Oh, you’ve taken a fancy to that, have you?” he lobbed back. “Why am I not surprised?”

Those eyebrows darted up with their own mirth. “What? You think you’re the only one with strange inclinations in bed, Jon Snow?”

Jon eyed the hunk of gold that she’d rolled to the end of the bed and gave her a pointed look. “Well, that _is_ a bit strange, Dany.”

“Some men like it,” she said with a smirk and a shrug. “They like it very much.”

Bending an arm behind him to grab at his neck, he leaned his head back as far as he could to take in every facet of her expression. The mention of marriage the week before had brought home the fact that Daenerys had likely had other lovers besides Khal Drogo, but Jon hadn’t wanted to spend any thought on them. Her insinuation, however, had him suddenly curious.

“Your husband?” he asked.

“Oh, ho, ho, ho, no. No,” she chuckled like a jolly fat man, her eyes wide as she shook her head with the sheer nonsense of such a suggestion. Jon took a swallow.

“Another lover then?”

Dany turned coy, drawing flowery circles around his scar. “Yes.” She held his gaze, her eyes demure and a promise in her smile. “Don’t worry, I left him in Meereen. But even if I hadn’t, you would have nothing to fear.”

“You didn’t love him?”

“I _enjoyed_ him. He was very useful to have around. But,” and she leaned down to kiss his chest before looking back into his face. “I never felt about him the way I feel about you. Not even remotely.”

His chest filled with air, his desire a hot spark again, and with an arm dropped to her back and her head in his hand, he rolled her the other way until he was on top, her squeal a delight before he leaned down to kiss her with every ounce of passion he had for her. Their mouths molded to each other as she hooked a leg around the back of his thigh, but Jon wanted more of her, his kisses moving down to take in her throat, at her collarbone. He shifted himself lower so he could tongue a nipple until it peaked, his hands sliding down to her belly.

“I don’t think I’m ready for another go just yet, my love,” she said, her fingers sliding into his hair to run along his scalp. “You’ve tired me out, I’m afraid.”

“You don’t have to do anything but lie there,” he rumbled, moving lower still to press lips to her belly. She was so warm, her skin so soft, and as he stroked her stomach with the tips of his fingers, Jon dared to imagine what her belly would look like swollen with his child.

It had been something he’d feared for so long, siring another bastard into the world – then being sick with the idea that he could have impregnated his sister – that to suddenly wish for such a thing left him profoundly shaken. To realize he did want a family of his own, and that he could have one with Daenerys. Knowing she loved him as much as he loved her had made it a possibility he’d never truly considered before now. The epiphany made him hopeful that there would be a future, one he hadn’t really believed in before meeting her, he now understood.

Dany put a hand at the back of his neck to stop him. “No, really, darling. I need to replenish.”

Rising up to rest his head against the palm of his hand, an elbow pressed to the bed, he laid a hand possessively across her stomach before sighing in thought.

“So then, these _inclinations_ – you learned about these instruments from this man?”

She shook her head. “No, I introduced the notion to him. With _another_ instrument, of course,” she added quickly at his widened eyes.

“And so you … you find some satisfaction in it then? Does it feel like being a man, in a way?” He thought of Sansa’s strange whims again.

“What?” Her expression turned befuddled as she raised her head. “It’s not about my satisfaction.”

“It’s not?”

She smiled at him affectionately, stroking the side of his face. “I seek only to give you pleasure, Jon. As much pleasure as you give me. I thought … well, that perhaps it would help ground you. Give you leave to explore _different_ things with me – ones perhaps not so violent. Your pleasure is important to me.”

“So that was meant for me? All right.” He gave her a small smile back. “I guess they do many practices differently in Meereen.”

Her mouth went wide with a yawn. “Oh, I learned about those things well before Meereen,” she said sleepily.

Jon raked over his thoughts trying to recall how many places she’d lived before joining the Dothraki, when an answer came to him suddenly.

“Ah right, the girl from Lys,” he remembered. “The one your brother bought for you.” He still found that quite distasteful, picturing Robb giving Sansa a girl like Ros to instruct her for a husband. It was just wrong. He didn’t bother to dwell on the irony of what his sister may have learned from him, though it left him with a nagging tickle at the back of his mind.

“Yes, well, I was expected to make Drogo very happy so my brother could reap the rewards of his army, and considering I was all of sixteen when I was married off, I didn’t know much. Doreah had to teach me rather a lot.”

“Really? And was that helpful to you?” The more he heard of her marriage, the more he didn’t like it. One of the first things she’d informed him of was her defilement and rape and from all that he’d heard it seemed there were but a few prospects of whom she might have been referring.

She gave him a devious smile. “I don’t know. You tell me.”

He felt himself grin shyly, his face heating up at his reaction to the various things she’d done to him. “Alright then, she taught you to great advantage. Still, that must have been … a bit odd in itself.” How did one explain such acts?

“Well.” The eyebrows were at work again as her smile broadened, the way she was looking at him as if he were quite dim. “She didn’t teach me so much as _perform_ for me. Or on me, rather. Say what you will about the girl, she knew her craft.”

The slow dawning of her meaning landed in Jon’s brain and now the heat in his cheeks spread all over his body.

“Oh.” He sat up in a sudden movement, an image of Daenerys and a young pretty bed slave as they pleasured each other now fully formed in his head. “I see.”

She laughed gustily. “I rather think that you do,” she said. “You know you’re very fetching when you blush that shade of red.”

“All right, enough of that,” he teased back, running a hand from between her breasts all the way down to her mons, where he cupped her sex with ownership. “So, tell me then, what was _that_ like?” He might not mind hearing about this lover.

“You should know, my sweet. Women are lovely, and their bodies pleasing to the touch. I enjoy them on occasion. And a woman knows what a woman likes innately, an understanding there that often takes men years of practice, if they even deign to trouble themselves with the knowledge at all. Unless they’re you, of course.”

“Mmm-hmm,” he hummed, affecting a scholarly seriousness. The news certainly put Ornela’s standing with Dany into a new light. “And this girl, she still continues to show her queen her gifts, when required?” he probed.

But oddly, Dany’s mood soured, her smile dropping like a stone. “Doreah’s gifts are no more, they dried up years ago,” she said abruptly. She sat up with him. “We don’t need to talk about her.”

Jon was immediately contrite, understanding that he’d said the wrong thing. “I’m sorry. I can see I’ve upset you. She didn’t make it across the Red Waste with the rest of you, did she?” he intuited.

Dany scoffed in disgust. “Oh, she made it alright. A snake can survive the desert. She slithered her way into the open arms of Qarth’s poisonous nobles. A whore has many opportunities in the greatest city that ever was or will be.”

A creeping unease spread up his back as he paused at her reaction. “What do you mean? She betrayed you?”

“As deeply as any person can,” she replied, her distress filtering into her features. She dropped her chin on bent knees and wrapped arms around her legs, looking like a lost little girl for a moment. Jon huddled closer to her, rubbing her back soothingly.

“What happened?” he asked quietly, sensing that a part of her did want to share the story.

“A man there – a merchant by the name of Xaro Xhoan Daxos – had invoked a blood oath to allow me and my people into the city after we were first denied entry by the council who governed it. I stayed at his manse as a guest, feeling quite in his debt. We would have surely died had we been turned away. While we were there recovering, I hoped to find investors, wealthy backers who would loan me some ships so I could sail to Westeros. But it was all a ruse. The man wanted me to marry him, and when I refused him, he stole my children as part of his plot to take control of Qarth. With the help of a warlock, he murdered every man on the council. This warlock wanted my dragons so his magic would grow in its power.”

“They kidnapped your dragons?” Jon found that shocking, to realize there was once a time when they’d been vulnerable, able to fit in the palm of her hand. They would have been coveted since the moment they were hatched, and Dany had already been a target. She had lived her life always in danger.

“Yes. I was beside myself trying to find them. I came back to Xaro’s house to discover them gone with members of my _khalasar_ murdered. My beloved Irri,” she began tearfully, before bending her forehead to her knees. Jon held her tighter, his arms around her legs as well. 

“Dany, I’m so sorry you had to go through that. How did you ever retrieve them?”

“Ser Jorah,” she said feebly into her knees. Then she looked up to meet his eyes. There was such pain there. “I'd learned they’d been taken to the House of the Undying. He helped me to find them.”

“What was the House of the Undying?”

“A tower where the warlock lived,” she answered, growing pensive. “He’d set a trap, and tried to keep me imprisoned there. But my children were returned to me, they wanted their mother, he said. That was the first time they burned someone alive at my command.”

Jon felt the chill along his spine again at her words. “And what happened to the man who took them? The one who had feigned his support?”

Dany took a great breath before answering. “We found him asleep in his bed. With Doreah by his side.”

“Oh, Dany.”

“No, it was necessary. I had to learn that lesson; to understand that I was on my own. I didn’t need benefactors. I’d seen what they had done to Viserys. I had to rely on myself. Ser Jorah found me a ship and we sailed for Astapor.”

“And Doreah? You left her there?”

“Yes, you could say that.”

Her meaning was plain. “Right. You had her executed.” Dany had still been so young then, to have made such a decision. It floored him to imagine her confidence at such an age. He recalled the killing of Qhorin Halfhand again, how it had unsettled him for months after. He thought of Sansa, her change after feeding Ramsay to his dogs, of Ygritte raiding and slaughtering villages, and a shudder went through him. Men were expected to kill each other. How was it different for a woman?

“She betrayed me,” Dany answered, her voice ringing out with the power which resided in her. “I cannot abide betrayal.”

“And so, you used your dragons?”

But she shook her head. “No. Xaro was a man who liked to gloat over his riches, making a big show of it every opportunity he had. He’d pointed out his vault to me, the door cast from Valyrian Steel, impenetrable but for the key he wore round his neck. We hoped to take some of his gold to build a fleet. But of course, like everything else about him, it was all a lie. When we opened it, the vault sat empty. That is no longer the case.”

Jon frowned. “You left his body inside?”

Dany nodded. “Both of them,” she added. "While they begged and cajoled the entire time."

Jon felt his unease growing. “You left the girl in there with him? Alive?” He had a sudden picture of it: a dark place, no air, no food, another body skittering around in the suffocating blackness desperate to live. Gooseflesh had sprouted along his arms, the horror of his dead children returning to him.

She was staring warily at him, her expression displeased. “What is it now? You don’t approve?”

The chill at his back started to needle its way along the rest of him. “I’m – well, it seems rather harsh.”

An eyebrow shot up. “Harsh? They were being executed for treason and murder. You think I should have let her live because she was a woman?”

“Of course not. I’m not suggesting you were wrong to pass their sentence. I understand what that’s like. I’m merely … there _are_ quicker ways to execute someone. Starving them to death …” It seemed cruel. Execution by its very name summoned a vision of instant action, not one that dragged on in some interminable torture.

“I doubt they lasted that long,” she snapped. “There were no windows, nor ventilation. It was a sealed room, what little air stagnant and stale.

For a moment, he saw Mance Rayder’s face in his mind, the pure terror etched there as the flames began to burn him. It had sickened Jon, to see such a great man brought to a terrible end, no dignity left to him. He thought of the nights when he would cut off the air to his lungs with his belt, when the world would start to slip away and Jon would feel that panic rise up as he choked for breath that was no longer there, that instant before he could make the decision to surrender to it or stay in the world. But to not have that choice?

“I suppose I am of a mind to consider the girl in such a situation. However long it took, that must have been a singular horror. What do you think a man might do, locked in the dark, desperate for food, with a young girl in his midst?”

Dany’s face turned pained. “And why should I care?” she charged, her voice shaking in her outrage. “It was because of her that my people were murdered! Irri on the floor of my room, strangled to death. What of her horror in her final moments? Does that mean nothing? It was probably Doreah who killed her!”

“Probably? You mean you don’t know?”

“I know she conspired against me!” Dany was shaken, her anger directed towards him, and Jon felt the cold cut through him in the face of it. “All because she wanted gold and fine dresses, to live in riches and have men take care of her. What kind of a ruler would I be to allow such treason?”

“I am not questioning your right as a ruler to dispense justice, Dany, only the manner with which you carry it out,” he reasoned. “You’re upset. I didn’t mean to take you back to such unpleasantness. Forgive me.”

But she had pulled away from him, sliding off the bed on the other side as she stood to wrap herself in her robe, her back to him. It felt as though a cloud had passed overhead, the brilliant sunshine that had bathed him under Dany’s gaze now gone, and Jon felt the cold envelop him the way it had back in Winterfell. Fear gripped his heart and he swallowed hard, stretching across the bed to reach for her arm.

“Dany, I’m sorry.”

“I’m tired and should like to rest,” she said. “Perhaps you should go.”

Jon felt sick all of a sudden.

“Please, Dany, look at me. I didn’t mean any of it.” He had shifted to her side and stood up next to her, clutching her arm above the elbow as he turned her to him and knelt before her in a single motion. “I’m sorry. I spoke out of ignorance. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.” She had already suffered a series of losses by then, one right after the other, and then to discover such a betrayal from one she’d deemed a confidant and lover. It would have been brutal. He wrapped arms about her waist and held her to him fiercely, the side of his face against her belly. “Please forgive me.”

He held his breath as he waited for her to respond, his eyes scrunched tight against her disappointment in him. When he felt her hand drop to the crown of his head, caress him with a gentle touch, relief swept through him.

“I suspect we are both a bit tired,” she said to him. “And too emotional.”

He leaned back to regard her. “Dany, you must understand; things were different for me growing up. My father … my brothers and I were taught by my father that he who passes the sentence should swing the sword. We understood that it was expected of us, especially my brother Robb, and we lived by that teaching as men. From the time I was very young my father would take me and Robb with him when he beheaded traitors. I stood beside my little brother, Bran, the first time he witnessed one. But more than that, my father told us that it was important to look a man in the eye before we took his head, that if we couldn’t, then perhaps that man didn’t deserve death. I never thought I would be in that position when I took the black, but then I became the Lord Commander and had to see to that duty, even before my murder. I keep seeing it as a man’s burden. But you are a queen. My queen. And you have had your own experiences which have informed your decisions. I should have acknowledged that.”

Dany watched him dispassionately through his speech, her face implacable. When she spoke, however, it was gentle. “Not all of us carry swords, Jon.”

“You’re right. I should understand that it is not going to be the same for you in such duties. It was wrong of me to suggest otherwise.”

She studied him shrewdly for a moment, her hand still caressing him. “And is that all?”

Jon cocked his head. “What do you mean?” Should he have said more?

She sighed heavily, looking at him as she would a wayward child. “You don’t see it? Why you may have responded as fiercely as you did?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

An eyebrow rose. “You imagined their terror. Inside a dark place. No sound, no spirits. Gasping for air. It was a familiar feeling for you and you reacted to it.”

The chill returned, to hear that she could recognize his thoughts. “It’s not the same,” he said weakly.

“It’s not? Are you sure about that?”

He didn’t know what to say to her. Instead, he kissed her taut stomach, trying to impart his remorse as he clutched her tighter. “Just say you forgive me.”

She sighed again. “I do. But you cannot keep this need in you.”

“I don’t know how to banish it,” he confessed.

“Let me help you.”

He sat back on his haunches and watched her hands slip away from him and move to her robe, where they tugged the sash from her waist free. Silk swept behind the back of his neck and he tilted his head up, locked his eyes with hers as she coiled it around him. When she pulled him forward by each tail, the sash cinched tighter and he felt his breath trapped in his throat. His eyes widened, but wouldn’t look away, Daenerys all he could see.

“I want you here with me, Jon. All of you. Do you trust me?”

Slowly, he nodded his head, his body already craving her warmth and her light.

“Good. Now climb on the bed, my love. I think my strength has been refreshed.”

* * *

It was late in the evening, the flames of each candle burning low as the wicks floated in pooling wax, and the moon cast its light into a corner, but they were still awake, drunk on their need for each other. Jon and Dany sat on the bed facing each other, his legs crossed at her backside, while Dany’s legs wrapped around him. He saw the candle’s flame reflected in the intensity of her eyes as she held his own – they’d been staring at each other for hours it felt like – and she brushed the hair back from his forehead with great tenderness as she spoke, her affections feeling like a communion of sorts. He wanted to be baptized by her again. They’d spent hours talking after she’d helped him. Jon felt known by her now, as no one had ever known him.

The ship rocked them on a consolatory ocean, the storm having passed, and they felt like naked babes in their cradles as Jon put his hands to her cheeks, while she held his face, too, a mirror to him. Her hair was loose, and it gleamed where it draped across her shoulders, a voluminous sheet of whitish silver down her back. “You are mine now,” she said with a quiet authority. “And those who would hurt you, I promise, will die screaming.”

And Jon believed her, every instinct in him ready to protect her as well, to fight for her. “I am yours, and you are mine,” he intoned. “Now and always.”

“Now and always,” she repeated in awe.

“I love you, Dany.”

“And you have my heart, my love.” She pulled him to her as she gripped his face, so that Jon leaned in to kiss her, and they melted into each other again, the boat rocking them softly on the sea.

* * *

It was good to be on solid ground again.

Varys took another luxurious sigh at the comfort of steady land under his boots, even if it was covered in snow. He looked around the bustling port, the Unsullied marching past him in a chain of action as they began the laborious task of emptying their ships. It had been a happy sight to come upon the Seal Rock as they made their way past the Outer Harbor, Varys so ready to have some space to himself beyond his tiny cabin. But taking in the faces around him, he had a mind to consider the Northmen might be more resistant to their new queen than he’d anticipated. Tyrion and her Majesty were up ahead with the former king, being greeted by a small party as a stand-in for Wyman Manderly, who had already left for Winterfell a week earlier they’d learned before docking.

The mood around them had been muted as the smallfolk eyed their visitors suspiciously, all while crowds gathered nonetheless. Then Rhaegal swooped down from the clouds and over the sparkling city and a seismic charge ran through them all, excited and terrified faces searching the skies for the rest of the queen’s dragons as news spread. Varys scanned a look upwards over the stony white steps leading to New Castle on the hill. It would have been preferable to stay there a night, had Lord Manderly been in house, but they were assured that their lodgings were at the city’s finest inn, where Queen Alysanne had once slept. To have another Targaryen spend a night under its roof had the innkeeper and his wife in boastful anticipation, they were told by a representative.

As the wagons were brought round, Varys noted the way that young Jon Snow kept close to Daenerys, his demeanor returned to his serious nature as he spoke to her and Tyrion in low tones. It was difficult for him not to touch her, Varys observed. The way the man kept flexing gloved fingers as they hovered near her, a nervous energy that flowed through his hands as he pointed out the ships still entering the inner harbor, or across the stacked houses that clung to the edges of the Wolf’s Den, a big black fortress that served as the prison. That Jon Snow was nervous made Varys nervous, but then he supposed it could have been partly due to bringing this new queen to meet his resurfaced family. Tyrion had the right of it. The Stark bastard was in love with her, they all saw it. The time they would spend on the King’s Road couldn’t be quick enough for Varys, eager to get on with things. He’d not had any truly juicy news delivered to him in a while, other than the unsettling information of Snow’s resurrection, and he was starved for some entertainment besides the goings on in her Grace’s stateroom. Finding out what Littlefinger knew would be great sport.

Horses were being brought to the square by Snow’s guards, as his men and Ser Davos clustered round him. One had been saddled for the young lord and a pale copper palfrey was prepared for Daenerys to mount. Gallantly, as was his wont, Snow helped her get astride her horse and was about to get on his own when one of Manderly’s men came rushing to him with a long scroll in hand. Snow immediately snapped its seal and unfurled it, reading through it with eyes widening so that even Varys could make out his chagrin from where he perched, as he climbed into the coach drawn up for him and his riding partner.

“That doesn’t look good,” he commented to Tyrion once he’d slid comfortably back in his seat.

Tyrion took his nose out of a map and glanced at the two lovers. “Oh? Why do you say that? Who do you suppose sent it?”

“Well, obviously I can’t see the seal from here, but I would venture to guess it was from home. What news might Sansa Stark have had for her brother that was so pressing it couldn’t wait the fortnight for us to arrive there?” The coach began to move as both Daenerys and Snow set off, a guide before them.

“He did tell her he bent the knee, didn’t he? You told me he did.”

“Of course he did. But will we find a merry homecoming or a languid reception, I wonder? Sansa was always a sweet child, but after the ordeal she’s been put through, I doubt we’ll find her in amenable spirits any longer.”

“The girl is no fool. She’ll see right through any subterfuge. We will win her over with our unfailing commitment in saving the North, just as her brother said.”

“Perhaps. But I take no comfort in seeing our queen being met by lackeys, with the lord of the city already fled to sit in wait with his compatriots at Winterfell. It feels like an omen.”

“They are preparing for doom, Varys. What would you have him do? Throw her a party?”

“No, but from what I hear, Manderly is probably the liveliest of the lot when it comes to the lords of the North. You would think he’d at least want to throw her a feast. He could have easily traveled with us as an escort.”

“Or he simply wanted to get to Winterfell early and have someone else worry about the feasts. You’re seeing collusion where there is none, my friend. Did you get any sleep last night at all?”

“Who can sleep with so much uncertainty? Although it was much appreciated when the noise ushered from the queen’s cabin finally died down. I imagine they exhaust themselves every night, like gasping trout washed upon the shore.”

“Yes, what a picture they make. Such ogres, the two of them. Do you think they ever quibble over who is the most horrid looking?”

“I don’t know that they even take time to speak to each other at all. Although there has been quite a bit of laughter coming from her room as of late, have you noticed?”

“I try not to.”

But Varys had had plenty of time to consider other items to be dealt with once they arrived. “And what of Brandon Stark? Why do you think he’s abdicated his title, if Jon Snow is correct in his summation? This supposed gift he now bears. It’s disturbing at best, and quite tragic if one thinks about it. What has become of Ned Stark’s children with all of these otherworldly abilities? I dread whatever else we may learn about them. Where has Arya Stark been hiding herself all these years, for starters? I haven’t heard a whisper of her since she disappeared from the capital.”

Knowledge had made Varys a cynic, he knew, yet he found it sad to see it engendered in one so young. Then again, he had learned the true nature of men when he’d been a very small boy and had grown up expecting the worst in people. It always made for a pleasant surprise when he found those who would flout such expectations and show decency and gentleness.

“I confess, I am curious to know more about Bran,” Tyrion acknowledged. “To have survived beyond the Wall, a cripple boy, beggars belief, and yet he somehow managed it. What has he seen, I wonder? And now he’s become an oracle to guide us at a most historic time. A fascinating story, to be sure.”

“Well first we have to prepare ourselves for the oncoming attack of dead men.” The image of the decayed body they’d brought before Cersei had stayed with him, a feeling of being unclean to have witnessed it. He’d been unmoored by these many instances of magic in the world, the memories of his castration haunting him at night for the first time in at least two decades. “Why do we think Jon Snow doesn’t hold faith that the Wall will keep them at bay?”

“The man has fought them. I would trust his judgment on this, if nothing else. I’m sure he’s seen many things that would put our security into question. It’s an obsession with him.”

“You don’t think he knows something he’s not telling us?”

Tyrion gave him a withering look. “Should I recount for you what went on at King’s Landing again? I was a breath away from the Mountain splitting me in half at my sister’s command. I think we can plainly see whatever Jon knows there on his face. He’s not known for being duplicitous.”

Varys had a disquieting thought as he recalled Tyrion’s account of the battle’s end at the Goldroad. Daenerys’s growing strength had become a nagging worry. “And what of the queen? How do you think she’ll handle the Northern attitudes? Even Robert would balk at them on occasion, called the North an unforgiving land with unforgiving people.”

“Considering she’s had a Northman in her bed every night since we left Dragonstone, I think she is untroubled by any attitudes she may encounter. She will charm them as she’s charmed their king. The woman has been extraordinarily gifted in adapting to the vicissitudes of her life’s many hardships. She is not at war with them, so they should have nothing to fear.”

Even with Tyrion’s assurances, Varys felt unease. It was true that the queen had been in the fog of love and therefore in high spirits during their journey. However, reality was ready to knock into the young lovers with its weary shoulder. He recalled Melisandre’s words frequently, how she had brought ice and fire together. What did she mean that the two should meet, if it was not merely to make an alliance? With her having a hand in Snow's revival, the red witch’s line now left him troubled.

They arrived at the inn and were greeted by the innkeeper and his wife with much fanfare, but once inside, Varys couldn’t help to dig a bit deeper into the young king’s missive. Jon Snow stood with Davos in a corner while their luggage was being disseminated to their rooms, their heads bent together in low murmurs. Varys brazenly approached them, yet his manner was obsequious as they turned their heads to him.

“Apologies, my lord, I don’t mean to interrupt, but I was hoping to have a word before we all found some respite away in our own rooms.”

Snow was wary, as usual, but gave him a curt nod. “Of course. How may I help you, Lord Varys?”

“I couldn’t help but notice you received some communication before we left the harbor. Any troubling news to impart, my lord? You appeared to be expressing some consternation at its contents, and yet my little birds have been so quiet as of late.”

The bastard stiffened at the inquiry, his eyes shrewd. “Aye, I had word from Winterfell waiting for me. And no. No troubles, Lord Varys, not anymore. However, it appears you are short a friend these days.”

Varys frowned. “Beg your pardon, my lord, but to which friend might you be referring?”

“Lord Baelish has been executed. For treason,” Davos rushed to answer, gleefully by the shine in his face.

Shock took hold of him. That didn’t seem possible. Baelish was a careful man; more so the greater the treachery. What had he been up to? “When did this happen?” he asked with a sense of foreboding.

“Right after we left Dragonstone,” Snow supplied. “I’m surprised that I’m the first one to inform you, Lord Varys. I guess your little birds have been busy and must have forgotten to update you.”

The two of them left him to attend to the queen, and Varys tried to recover quickly from the news. It was an odd feeling. Baelish had been an enemy, had worked tirelessly to undermine Varys during their days at court. But now that he was gone, Varys felt … bereft. He was becoming a relic in this new age, where dragons soared and dead men marched, and few left with which to commiserate. All he had to offer was information yet he was in a place where information would be hard to come by and even harder won. What purpose would he have for Daenerys once they succeeded in getting her on the throne? If they even managed it at all? He didn’t know anymore. Littlefinger had been an agent of chaos, but he was part of a system that Varys understood. It was a strange conceit to realize that he had felt more useful in Meereen than he did here.

Varys turned to see Tyrion watching him with curiosity. He pointed towards the tables, where he was heading for some drink, and raised an eyebrow in question. Varys glanced around at the strewn members of their party and watched as Daenerys was escorted up the staircase with her arm hooked in Jon Snow’s, the two of them deep in conversation as if the rest of them didn’t exist. They held the world in their hands between them, he thought, their love having the power to affect them all. Did they even know it?

He nodded to Tyrion and followed him to the dining hall, ready to toast his old friend’s passing.

* * *

“Where do you think they’ll stay?” Arya asked Bran as they sat on the walkway, her legs hanging off the ledge over the yard, and his movable chair up against the railing as they picked off pieces of hot bread between them.

“Wherever they want, I expect,” he replied, watching the boys practicing below with a faraway look. “Were you hoping they’ll sleep atop the Great Keep? We can listen to their snores above us as they thunder through the castle’s walls.”

Arya grew excited at the picture. “Do you think they will?”

“No.” He picked at his bread, his eyes never leaving the boys now brandishing their swords while Ser Donnar made them run through their paces.

Arya rolled her eyes. “They’re bloody dragons; they had better do something memorable. Maybe they’ll eat Lord Cerwyn for us.”

“You don’t seem to like him much,” he commented listlessly, picking holes in the half of his loaf. “Any particular offense he’s committed to warrant death by dragon?”

“Well, he’s a complete prat, isn’t he?” she said, her tone pragmatic. “Always hanging about Sansa trying to get her to talk to him. Have you seen what he said about Jon yesterday at dinner? I wasn’t more than three feet away, but the idiot didn’t bother to notice, too busy making jokes about our brother and that … the dragon queen.”

“What were they saying?”

Her eyes slid sideways towards him. “I probably shouldn’t repeat such words to my baby brother, but it was something about Jon’s bits. And her … well, down there. That he would have burns on his todger.”

The silence stretched long when she finished, but Bran continued to nibble at his tufts of bread. Arya’s eyes widened impatiently after a minute. “So you don’t know anything about that then?” she coaxed.

“You think I would know if Jon has burns on his todger?”

“Oh, you’re hilarious. Truly. Are you seriously trying to tell me you know nothing about whether the rumors are true?”

“I don’t listen much to rumors.” He gave her the rest of his bread. “We have more important things to worry about. I thought you said you would take me to the godswood.”

“Don’t avoid the question,” she demanded coolly.

“I don’t know what you’re asking me.”

Arya sighed. “Is Jon … is he _with_ her?”

Bran looked off into the distance. “Is that what the rumors are suggesting?”

“The rumors are doing more than that,” she said. “And worse, word is spreading like the pox that Jon gave up his crown to a Targaryen. People are getting ideas.”

“Well, we can’t have that.”

“Seven hells, can’t you just tell me what you see? I had an easier time of it getting information out of Tywin fucking Lannister.”

“If you would just take me to the godswood, then maybe I can give you an answer.”

“Why didn’t you get that fat man who came to see Jon to take you there? He follows you around everywhere, like a damn shadow. I think it makes his wife nervous.”

“He didn’t know about Jon. About what his men did to him. How he came back. Sam feels guilty for leaving him. He has a lot of questions. Like someone else I know.”

“So he’s hoping _you’ll_ forgive him, is he? Yes, that makes complete sense. Is he also pestering you to send some ravens to spy on Jon to see what he’s up to?”

“No, that would be Sansa.”

With a quirk of her head, Arya studied her brother through narrow eyes. “What did she say exactly? She’s been at her wit’s end, you know. Surely you can see it, too.”

“She has been rather tense.”

“That’s like saying it’s just a bit nippy out. She tries to let on that she’s fine and that everything will be totally alright when Jon gets here, but I hear her at night when I go by her chambers.”

“You mean when you listen at her door?”

“Whatever. The point is she’s still worried about Jon. And probably more than a bit angry at him. Sansa thinks he gave in to her too easily, and she thinks Daenerys Targaryen will drag our brother away to King’s Landing at first opportunity. If we beat the dead, of course.”

“Daenerys needs to be here. The Night King has her dead dragon and has breached the Wall, might I remind you. Perhaps it is the threat of our annihilation that has Sansa worried.”

“All she talks about is Jon and that woman, so I don’t think I agree with you there. And we can’t do a whole lot until the dead get here, can we? Not going to be much of a homecoming for our big brother, by the looks of it.”

“He saw the dragon killed. I suspect he won’t be surprised when he hears the news.”

“So you do know something?”

“I’ll know more if you take me to the godswood.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell.”

Finally, Arya stood up, tossing the remainder of the loaf out into the yard where the boys dropped their wooden swords in an attempt to catch it. She brushed crumbs angrily from her pants. “I’m not about to carry you on my back down the stairs. Maester Wolkan was busy earlier. Give me a bloody minute and I’ll go find someone.”

She stormed off. He looked down below at the boys again, chasing each other in the snow as they laughingly fought over their get. The boy remembered running. The freedom of it. But he was the three-eyed raven and could fly now, he reminded himself, even if that freedom didn’t quite feel the same. And the three-eyed raven wanted to get out of this chair, to soar over the mountains and their lands. Yet there were still some things he didn’t want to see, or want to know. The boy didn’t want to have to tell Jon the truth, but the three-eyed raven knew that he must, and so he was resigned to it.

Then there was the disaster he’d seen days ago. The Wall had crumbled at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, and the Night King now rode one of Daenerys’s beasts. It had taken near a fortnight to pull the carcass from the depths of the lake, the dead soldiers hauling heavy chains they’d salvaged from ships wrecked along the coast across miles, and they did not move with haste, a token blessing. When he’d told Sansa her face had turned ashen, yet her first instinct had been to ask for Jon’s whereabouts. The moment had been troubling. Arya was right about their sister’s preoccupation. It left him feeling odd, like when he’d seen her wedding night.

And there was his traveler, too, on his way to Winterfell on the King’s Road. His many eyes had seen him, lo these two days past, and the boy’s dreams had been strange since then. By the markers, he expected his visitor was likely only a few days behind Jon’s procession in estimating their arrival. Enough time to be prepared.

A sharp laugh broke his thoughts and his eyes cut back to the lads, one of them fallen to the ground on his back. It made him think of Wylis for a second, made him remember what he’d done to his friend.

He turned away. He needed to get to the godswood.

* * *

She stood under the weirwood tree after rolling her brother towards it trunk and picked up a dead branch to practice with it. It was so beautiful here, the snow a comforting white blanket, making it seem impossible that the rest of the world was in chaos and the end was nigh. Yet here they were, under red and gold boughs, with leaves that caught the sun in a bright, incendiary light. Arya felt at peace in this spot, even with the odd sight of her brother grabbing hold of the gnarled face carved into the bark and watching his eyes roll back in his head, leaving only the whites visible. She’d seen him do it perhaps a dozen times but it was still unsettling. It was a curious feat, though. What would the Many-Faced God make of Bran, she wondered. What would Jaqen H’ghar? As long as it got them some insight into what Jon was up to, she was happy to assist.

After only a few minutes, Bran pulled away with a gasp, before doubling over in his chair. Arya ran over to him, putting a hand to his back in alarm.

“Bran, what is it? What did you see?”

He took a few sobering breaths and sat back up, his expression returned to its placidness but his pallor gone pale. “I saw King’s Landing.”

“What was happening? What’s going on there?”

“Nothing yet,” he said calmly. “I don’t know what I saw.”

She’d grown used to his vague answers and brushed it off. He would tell her when he had something concrete. “Did you see Jon? Is he close?”

“They made port at White Harbor yesterday. They’ll be on their way to Winterfell come morning.”

She felt a tingle of excitement in her belly. Arya had waited so long to see him. It felt like a dream to realize it would happen very soon. “How did he look? Did he have the other dragons with him?”

Bran didn’t answer right away, lines appearing in his face that shouldn’t be there in one so young, she thought with some sadness.

“Jon is … I don’t know that I want to see these things. Jon will be here soon enough.”

Suspicion immediately prickled her senses. “Why? What was he up to?” She thought of the dragon queen. What was she like? Sansa said she was supposed to be beautiful, and said it in a way that had Arya concerned. The rumors only added kindling to a growing fire.

But her brother turned withdrawn. He stared at the heart tree, not hurried to answer her. Then he suddenly turned and met her gaze head-on.

“I’ll never be with anyone,” he said, resigned to it.

She grabbed hold of his hand and squeezed it. “You have your family, Bran,” she said knowing that wasn’t his meaning. “I’ll protect you. You’ll never be alone.”

“You will protect me,” he told her. “But you’ll leave in the end. They always do.”

Arya felt a pain in her heart. She only just got her family back, surely she wouldn’t leave them? But a part of her worried that he spoke the truth.

Jon’s return couldn’t come fast enough.

* * *

He was cold.

Ice traveled in his blood where he was denied her warmth, the pain leaving him so attuned to every bit of stimuli his skin was exposed to that he felt himself rising again.

Jon floated.

He was under the ocean again, experiencing the calm and the silence, only Dany was there with him this time, her face above his, the water fanning her hair about her head like sinewy tentacles. A deep throb across his chest, prickly heat flooding certain points of his body where he was skewered, made the space around him pulse. It was alright, though. She was here.

“Dany,” he rasped, his body quivering as he waited for her to slide onto him again, but she was poised above him, her eyes as big as moons until he couldn’t look away.

“Breathe with me, my darling,” she said. And her voice was like warm honey, drizzling over him, encasing him with her love. She dropped her body down, and Jon groaned so deeply he felt it in his hair, everything vibrating, the room, the light, her eyes, and that heat spreading through him until he wanted to cry out from the sheer pleasure of it.

Her moan reverberated through his cock, so deep inside her he felt her heart pound, and when she moved on him, that sweet rush, the total ecstasy in her face an addiction for him now. He wanted to hold her and he struggled briefly as he remembered that he couldn’t reach for her, having been bound with her sash. Wrists tied above his head, where she’d cinched him to her bed’s post. Dany raised herself up, so slowly, and she hovered there, the head of his cock trying to stay in her warmth as she pulled away.

“Don’t leave me,” he begged.

She put her hands to his chest, right under the steel that pierced him, watching every action in his face as she came down hard on him and Jon shouted to feel her grip him once more. It felt good, so good, the pleasure so entwined with the pain that the fusion of it took him out of himself and he floated above his body on new streams, the colors dazzling as they raced by.

“Jon, be with me,” she cried as she rode his cock in leisurely motions, his body so hard, beating for her.

“I am, I’m with you,” he muttered, feeling incoherent, and still he wanted to hold her to touch her to drown in her. She was hovering above his cock again and he growled in need, a deep rumble in his throat. Waves of sensation washed up from his leg – she’d hooked an ankle to a corner post so it wouldn’t be jostled, the long thin needle piercing his skin keeping him tethered, the gauge of it having slid through the fat of his thigh like butter. They were used for her plaits, she’d said, and he’d allowed it, what else could he say. Two more pinched him, one through each nipple, the initial sting having faded, and so much power shot through him, a great swirling energy which left him delirious and euphoric at once.

“I need you,” she told him. And Jon’s gratitude swept over him again so fiercely he felt a sob in his chest. He rose up, his hips moving to push himself deeper inside her, but she pressed him down with both hands. “No, my love, wait. Wait for me.”

And he did. Jon watched her face, watched the awe as she stared into him, into his very soul, he was lost in those eyes, and she moved over him, faster and faster, until her mouth opened as she cried out and Jon was crying out with her, the two of them getting closer, he could see it in her face, the flush, the fire in them burning everything around him, the room the chair in the corner, everything behind an orange glow, and then he felt his body rise up, he was lifted up, and she called out to him, and there they met, the two of them, bathed in their love, the orgasm infused in her face the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen.

Jon came with the force of her, floating above his body still, before sailing into the ether, lost in the tide …

* * *

“Where’s Arya?” Sansa asked in annoyance, pulling on her gloves as she met Bran at the bottom of the stairs. “I’ve looked all over the Keep. Jon’s almost here, I don’t understand it.”

“She’s gone to Wintertown to see if she can spot him, she said.” Bran was unbothered by her disappearance, of course, yet looked striking in his furs, a regal air contained in his disposition, she noted. It still shocked her sometimes, to see the change in him, yet she had almost come to rely on his impassive nature.

“Everyone else has moved into the courtyard at the East gate. She should be there with us to receive them. I swear, it’s like Robert’s visit all over again. Has she learned nothing about the standards of ceremony since then?”

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

Sansa moved behind Bran’s chair to take hold of its sides and push him down the wooden panel they’d laid over the steps. The fluttering in her stomach that had begun as soon as she’d awakened had only intensified, until she’d felt as if an entire colony of moths had settled there. Haunting dreams had left her tossing in her restlessness throughout the night, the baying of the hounds returned, and when she’d opened her eyes it was in a fit of gasping horror, her body bathed in sweat from the tangible feel of her brother’s body on hers. Gods, she had wanted him. And now she would stand with the entire court to bow to this queen, Jon by her side.

How would she survive it, she wondered, feeling humbled by the enormity of her task.

They had come to the corner of the Great Keep’s arch when a small figure jumped down in front of them from the ledge above, startling Sansa with another jolt in her belly.

“Hollis! What are you doing?”

“Sorry, Lady Sansa, I wanted to tell you I saw him.” The boy looked to Bran with excitement. “You were right, my lord, I saw everything from up there, the entire procession. There’s loads of ‘em! For miles they go on. But his Grace was at the front, with the queen! Did you see her dragons overhead?! One went right over me!”

Sansa took a steadying breath. She’d seen them, too, up on the battlements where she’d gone to search for Jon along the marching horde, a wide black carpet of soldiers on foot and with horses that stretched as far as Hollis had claimed. The beasts were massive and a shot of fear had run through her to see them.

“Is everyone at their posts?” she asked, hoping that Arya had returned. She didn’t want to be on her own to welcome them. “Where’s Lady Brienne?” Her sworn shield had arrived with her squire a day earlier than the host, but had remained mysteriously absent since the evening's feast.

“Here I am, my lady,” a voice called, and when Sansa turned her head, she saw Brienne arriving with Podrick behind her. A sigh settled over her turbulent emotions. Brienne would be by her side, with her comforting strength.

When they arrived in the courtyard, the square was full, and Sansa felt the tension of the huddled group in the air. No one knew what to expect, but they were wary, as was she. Sansa swallowed tightly, moving into position, with Podrick taking over the duty of pushing Bran’s chair to park him beside her. No Arya still, but little Lady Mormont stood by Lord Royce with a dour face. She had not been happy to hear about Jon bending the knee. Nor had anyone else. But Sansa would do her best to guide her brother through their disappointment. She had prepared him, after all.

Everyone settled into place. Sansa saw horses coming up to the gate and then there he was. Jon. His horse ambled under the arch until Jon spotted them, and then with a determined look he kicked his horse into a gallop, until he was there in the courtyard, climbing down with eyes towards her. Sansa’s heart leapt. She couldn’t believe he was here. His face looked fuller, she immediately noted, and she was happy to see he’d been eating at least, his appearance much healthier than when he’d left.

But when he made his way towards them, he walked straight to Bran, bending down to kiss him on his forehead. “Look at you,” he rejoiced. “You’re a man now.” She felt a pang in her heart at Bran’s answer, seeing Jon thrown for a moment. She would have much to explain to him about that.

And then Jon was looking at her and Sansa wanted to cry out from her joy, wanted to jump into his arms. But she didn’t. She opened her arms to him, her smile wide, the Lady of Winterfell happy to see her brother returned. Jon wrapped his arms around her in a hug and she felt so much relief flood her. He was safe. He was in her arms.

Movement continued in the courtyard and Sansa’s eyes flashed a look to the woman who’d just come down from her horse. And Sansa wanted to die as she held Jon to her breast.

She was beautiful.

“Where’s Arya,” Jon asked her as he pulled away. She said something to him, her eyes never leaving Daenerys Stormborn, watching as the woman made her way to them with a man in tow. Jon stepped to the side and looked back, and Sansa saw it, saw that concern in his face as they approached. He was worried at how she would be received. At how Daenerys would react to them. And Sansa suddenly saw the truth of it.

She tried to swallow but it was as if a brick had lodged in her throat, a scream inside her head.

The queen was short, her white coat resplendent, and she came towards them with a bearing that suggested she was not here to ingratiate herself, her shoulders stiff as she walked, and a smile propped upon her lovely face.

When Jon introduced them, Sansa could hear his voice tinged with his happiness.

“Thank you for inviting us into your home, Lady Stark,” she said in a voice that was warm. “The North is as beautiful as your brother claimed. As are you.”

Sansa didn’t fall for it. So this queen knew how to placate her subjects, how to play the game. That was interesting. She studied Daenerys for a moment longer, relishing the fact that Jon was probably on pins and needles the entire time.

Finally, she spoke, refraining to curtsy.

“Winterfell is yours, Your Grace,” she said evenly.

The queen made an attempt to keep her composure, but appeared flustered for a second, and Sansa saw Daenerys gulp visibly with some satisfaction. But before she could respond, Bran burst forth with his news, letting her know the fate of one of her dragons with little concern for how he delivered it. The woman was shocked and something in Sansa rose up, bared sharp fangs at the sight. She darted eyes to Jon and he looked shocked, as well.

And Sansa realized she had the power here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We will hear more from Sansa next chapter. She's got more to say.
> 
> I feel like I should create a Spotify playlist of the soundtrack to the sex scenes in this story as I write them, lol.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this one came together pretty quickly. I have a pretty good idea what's going on these next few chapters so I should be able to update weekly for a bit. Thanks again to my beta, mimreads, and her quick review and great notes.
> 
> Even more dialogue from S8E1 this time, so credit to Dave Hill. I really do try to avoid repeating scenes but both of these were just too important and I couldn't just skip over them, as I wanted to extend them.
> 
> You know, I never thanked you, but this fic just went over 36k hits and that's a big milestone for me, so thanks so much to all of you reading this silly story which has managed to keep me from going covid mad. It's going to be a full year come Christmas day. And this story isn't even halfway through. Hope everyone is getting in the holiday spirit - it snowed here today, lol. Winter is here.

**.xxxi**

Arya walked silently down the path to the godswood.

She kept to the trees, watching the back of her brother with interest as he strolled ahead of her. He wore his cloak, and was in full regalia still from the meet in the Great Hall. It had been so strange to see him pass her on the Kingsroad through town, how much he had looked the part of a returning king. There had been power in his smile, in the way he sat astride his horse, and Arya felt so happy to see him while simultaneously wondering just how he’d come to be this person before her. It was unsettling that Sansa knew the answer better than her. At one time in their lives, she hadn’t thought that possible.

But Sansa was a mystery unto herself, as Arya learned every day. Even this homecoming was more fraught than it should be, with the bitter taste of having to bow to a queen only increasing the tension for the family. Arya didn’t imagine Jon realized just how upset Sansa truly was about his decision.

Arya hadn’t fully realized it, either, but then she’d seen her sister leaving the Great Hall after the congregation had dispersed, and she’d followed her from a distance. She hadn’t wanted to listen to this new queen’s promises, nor hear Jon have to defend himself to his people, so she had stayed away and let the others deal with it. Yet something about the way Sansa had scampered from the building, the way she held her stomach tightly as she tried to temper herself from breaking into a run, had Arya itching to find out what was up with her. Sansa had rushed into the small sept that their father had built for their mother and Arya had hung back enough that she’d obscured herself by a narrow wall. After a few minutes, she’d crept her way to the side of the sept’s entrance. Immediately, she heard crying.

She’d poked her head to the side to glance through the doorway and there was her sister, her back to Arya as she stood before the statue of the Mother, but doubled over as though in pain, the sound of her cries cutting right through Arya. It hadn’t been gentle weeping, but an hysterical lament, sobs so violent as if her sister’s belly were being ripped open. Arya had been distressed to see it and tenderness towards her sister sprang in her heart. It suddenly occurred to her what this had meant for Sansa. To have fought for Wintefell once already and defeated their enemies, then felt that freedom when they’d crowned Jon king, only to have the Starks become subjects again, beholden to another to decide their fates – she could understand how Sansa would feel a special betrayal at that. She’d heard enough whispers around the castle to know that Sansa’s treatment under Bolton had been wicked and cruel.

Then the weeping had stopped suddenly, Sansa straightening and taking a few solid breaths, wiping her eyes by the looks of it. She’d turned to face the door and Arya had ducked back against the wall before being seen, hugging its curved stone as she slid around its side. She’d watched as Sansa left the sept and made her way towards the Keep looking for all the world like a true lady, her back straight and her manner steely as one of her guards came rushing up to her. Arya felt another sweep of protectiveness towards her sister settle within her.

And now she was following Jon, wondering what he was thinking to come to the godswood. Sansa had said that she’d seen his wounds, and Arya held a powerful curiosity about her brother’s death experience. She’d seen the faces of those who were ready to die moments before they drank from the black cup, the utter peace which flooded them, before Arya would wash their dead bodies and slice off another contribution for the Many-Faced God. It had been a humbling exercise to see such a yearning for death, a need so great to want the suffering to end. But Jon’s death had been violent – his life had been stolen from him. How did he feel to be back here? Only death paid for life and that would have left the brother she knew with a heavy heart. The Many-Faced God would surely have an eye towards Jon.

She trod quietly through the snow to dodge behind another tree and watched Jon approach the great weirwood, his head bent in reverence. A memory of the last time she saw him came to her, his sad wave to her as she’d poked her head through the wheelhouse window when he parted ways with them on the Kingsroad, bound for Castle Black and glory. He’d been a giant to her back then.

She came out from behind her hiding place.

“You used to be taller.”

Jon spun around and surprise bloomed in his face when he saw her.

“How did you sneak up on me?” And oh, his voice was so deep, even deeper than Father’s, and she acknowledged the truth of it as if all the rest hadn’t announced her brother was a man now.

“How did you survive a knife through the heart?”

He gave her a hapless smile. “I didn’t,” he confessed, and a rush of emotion landed in her chest to hear it so plainly. She’d almost lost him for good. But he was here, standing in front of her. Arya ran to him and jumped into his arms, where they circled her tightly as Jon squeezed her to him. To hold him again felt like she was home for the first time since arriving in Winterfell. And she understood with finality that home was no longer a place for her to wander, but the space in her heart where her loved ones resided.

When they broke apart, he was surprised to see she still had Needle. She showed off the blade, knowing that it had been under Jon’s watch and specifications that Mikken had made it so suitable for her, an extension to her arm. _Can you drop part of your arm?_ She heard Syrio say in her head. No, it was a part of her now. She remembered when it had been taken from her, and what she’d done to get it back. He asked her if she’d ever used it and Sansa’s warning came to her. “Don’t tell Jon what you were doing in Braavos,” she’d asked her just a few days ago. “It will only upset him.”

“Once or twice,” she said now.

She glanced at the sword at Jon’s hip and he grinned as he drew it for her, showing it off. It was a beauty; a Valyrian steel sword that spoke to Jon’s skill and his strength. He was fit to be a king, she thought.

He wanted to know where she’d been before, but luckily she was able to avoid an answer. “I could have used your help with Sansa,” he said, leaning in conspiratorially.

It sounded like things had not gone well in the Great Hall. Sansa’s reaction in the sept certainly cemented it but told a different side to the matter. There was something going on between the two that Arya had yet to gain a full understanding.

“She doesn’t like your queen, does she?” she deduced.

But Jon’s answer surprised her. “Sansa thinks she’s smarter than everyone else.”

It seemed unfair. He had no idea just what Sansa had been put through worrying about him and she felt an instinctive need to defend her sister. That seemed to amuse Jon, and she had a memory intrude into her thoughts of the fights she’d used to have with Sansa when they’d been children, so many of which Jon had witnessed. But they weren’t children any more.

“I’m defending our family. So is she,” she reminded him.

Jon’s expression turned solemn then, something there in his eyes that she couldn’t quite decipher. “I’m her family, too.”

He was. And the joy of having all of her family with her after such a long time rose up in her again. She hugged her brother once more, holding him with all her strength. “Don’t forget that,” she said into his fur collar.

They basked in each other for another moment before she stepped away, smiling fondly to him. She brushed the fur down where she’d lain her head. “I like the new look,” she said. “Very kingly.”

Jon glanced down with a chuckle. “Is it? I don’t know about that. Sansa’s the one who made it for me.”

 _Of course she did_ , Arya thought. The more she learned of their relationship, the more she was intrigued. It seemed very complicated.

She scooped her brother’s arm in her own and turned them to walk back the way they had come. “So, things didn’t start off so well, then? I imagine the Northern lords had much to say. The news of your decision was not greeted with cheers. They’ve been grumbling about it for weeks.”

He sighed. “I expected as much. But they haven’t seen what I’ve seen. It’s even worse now, the horde has grown. We need her.” And again, Arya heard something in his voice that she couldn’t quite grasp. Then he turned to her with a wide smile.

“Did you see the dragons?”

“I did,” she said warmly. “They’re hard to miss.”

“I thought about all the stories you made me read to you when I was first introduced to Drogon.”

Arya smirked. “Oh, we’re on a first name basis, are we?” That seemed to suggest quite a lot about his relationship to his dragon queen. “Wot, do they eat apples out of your hand? Do you scratch them behind the ears like you do Ghost?”

He laughed. “Not quite,” he said before looking around. “Where is Ghost, by the way? I thought he’d be waiting in town for me.”

The mention of Winter town made her recall who else had been in his procession.

“He’s around. Speaking of old friends, what are you doing with the Hound? I saw him with your soldiers.”

Jon gave her a curious look. “He’s not exactly a friend. I met up with him at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. He was there with Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr trying to go beyond the Wall. He decided to stay with us and fight when we came back from meeting with Cersei. Don’t worry. He’s not as fearsome as he looks.”

She frowned. “Didn’t he tell you that we traveled together?”

Jon narrowed his eyes at her. “What do you mean? When were you traveling with the Hound?”

“Just for a bit. In the Riverlands. My friends and I were taken in by the Brotherhood without Banners,” she offered. “They captured the Hound and made him answer for his crimes.” She eyed Jon skeptically. “You met Beric, too? Did he tell you all about his Lord of Light?” Beric believed that his lord kept bringing him back for a purpose, and Arya wondered again what it would mean for Jon.

“Aye, he did give me an earful,” he answered, eyebrows raised. “I didn’t know you’d met them.”

She was further puzzled and stopped in her tracks to turn to him. “You mean, not even Gendry told you?”

“You know Gendry? How do you – ah, your friends when you were taken? He was one of them?”

“Yes.” But she didn’t want to get into her long tales, wanting only to revel in her brother’s company and hear of his life since she’d last seen him. “But I can’t imagine he was any use to you beyond the Wall. He might be good at making weapons, but he’s not exactly a fighter.” She wrapped her arm around her brother’s waist and he slung an arm about her shoulder as they resumed walking.

“Perhaps not, but he’s a fast runner. It made all the difference.” He sighed and looked troubled. “I know that the Hound … knew Sansa. Had saved her from an awful situation. I preferred to stay away from that conversation.”

Knowing all she did, her brother’s instincts had been sound but she wondered just what types of stories Sansa had shared with him. “That was probably for the best. We don’t need the dog sniffing around her right now.” Sansa had enough to deal with already. Arya heard the Hound at the foot of that mountain, broken and begging for death, bellowing about his days with her sister. _I should have fucked her bloody. At least I’d have one happy memory._

Jon snapped eyes at her, his mouth a tight seam before he grew thoughtful. “So now we’re all here together, and death is a stone’s throw away.” He glanced down to her hip. “I hope you’ve gotten in some practice with Needle. You’re going to need it.”

“I do alright,” she told him. “Bran said the Night King fought you at Hardhome. That you killed a White Walker. He said it was a massacre.”

Her brother slowed them down, almost to a standstill. “Bran saw that?” She heard a note of fear.

“Yes, he sees a lot. You can’t always get the information you want from him, though. It’s like you have to sort of guide him in the right direction, before he can find it.”

“And how does he … I mean, does he say how the visions come to him?”

“Well,” she pictured Bran again in the godswood with his whited eyes and nodded towards it, “some of it is at the heart tree. He has a connection to the Old Gods. They show him things. He said that he has dreams, too, where he’s walking again but he’s in the past, before he was born. And then there are his ravens.”

“What ravens?”

“He can see through their eyes, he told me. That’s how he saw the Wall come down, as it happened.”

Jon was quiet for a bit as they walked, absorbing all that she’d said. “He seems … changed.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “He’s a bit odd, the way he talks. But he’s still our brother. I know he’s in there.” She glanced up at Jon and smiled at him. “It just takes a bit of getting used to.”

“Aye, I’ll be getting used to you both,” Jon grinned back. “And I hope we have enough time for me to hear all about what you’ve been up to. You’ll be at the feast tomorrow night?”

“Maybe,” she offered, promising nothing. She didn’t know if she wanted to endure the discomfort of sitting between Sansa and the queen. “I’ve got some things to do at the forge still.”

He stopped them again and faced her. “I haven’t spoken to Sansa about Littlefinger yet. You were there for his trial?”

“I was,” she admitted.

Strangely, her brother looked flustered for a moment before he spoke, his eyes elsewhere. “And Sansa … how did she handle it? Was she all right?”

Arya thought of Sansa’s breakdown in Jon’s room but kept it to herself. “She was masterful. She had him dead to rights. There was nothing he could say in the end. I think the lords respected her quite a bit after that showing.”

Jon nodded gravely. “Aye, I’m sure they do. And how has she been doing since then? Has she been cursing my name since my scroll arrived?”

She saw Sansa again in the sept, saw that unabashed display of pain, and gave her brother a softened smile. “She’s gotten better. I think Bran constantly reminding us what we’re about to face has tempered her a bit. And,” she frowned to suddenly think on it, “she’s more happy to see that you’re alive than she is angry at you bending the knee. I hope you understand that. She’s been worried about you. Some days, you’re all she talks about.”

Jon’s face became clouded and he turned away from her then, putting his arm back around her shoulder as they continued their way back to the castle.

Once they left the godswood, they talked of the preparations, of sailing on the seas, Jon even answered some questions she had about the Dothraki, and then they were traipsing through the courtyard, still with their arms about each other, and dodging workers as they made their way to the Great Keep. But as they drew near it, Arya spotted a group in front of its arches, a small blonde woman at the head of them. Daenerys Targaryen turned around and looked right at her brother and Arya saw the leap in the woman’s eyes even from where she stood, saw her face light up. She instantly darted a glance up to Jon in time to see his entire demeanor change, the smile that widened his mouth as genuine and lovely as she’d ever seen on him. And Arya saw it there, plain as day. Jon was in love with her. 

With a sudden clarity, Arya realized that Sansa had seen it, too.

* * *

Daenerys pulled him along through the corridors as they made their way to the queen’s chambers, her grip around his wrist with a forcefulness that denoted her desire. They were still high on their ride around the countryside on the backs of Rhaegal and Drogon, and Jon had seen that glint in her eye when they’d returned, knowing that they were both eager to wallow in each other’s bodies.

The ride had been exhilarating, but also much needed after the tense setting in the Great Hall. He’d sat through Lyanna Mormont’s disappointment in him, had suffered through the obvious mistrust between Sansa and Dany and their snipes towards each other, and withstood Sansa’s withering looks in his direction to herald her very clear displeasure with him. He was dreading their next conversation.

 _I had a choice. Keep my crown, or protect the North. I chose the North,_ he’d told them all. It hadn’t been enough for his sister, but the worst part was she didn’t know the half of it. Daenerys had already cottoned on to Sansa’s dislike of her, yet Sansa hadn’t even given her a chance. The frustration of them being at odds ate at Jon, the two women at the forefront of all of his thoughts, and so the option of disappearing into Dany’s body for an interval was a welcome relief.

“Is it up here?” she asked breathlessly as they turned the corner.

“Yes,” he said, happy again to have discovered that at the very least, Sansa had housed Daenerys in the King’s quarters and prepared it accordingly.

They arrived at the door to see that an Unsullied guard stood waiting at attention. The utter discipline in his rigid stance was a constant source of marvel for Jon, and he held a deep respect for their dedication to duty. Watching them march on the Kingsroad, in the cold, from White Harbor to Winterfell with nary a whisper of a complaint, had given him a greater sense of appreciation for their service to Dany.

Across from her guard stood one of his own men, stationed at the same post to keep a watch over Dany. Jon had hand-picked Gareth and sent him here, an opportunity for the lad to redeem himself. It had been this guard’s inability to keep Sansa out of his room that had begun such madness with his sister, after all. Yet he felt a creeping sense of unease as Dany dragged him into her chambers, and he glanced back at Gareth with a bold stare, a reminder that discretion was a part of his duties. He would replace him with Kevven to take up his post once his personal guard had gotten some rest from the journey.

But as soon as she closed the door, Dany was unlatching the straps of his cloak, and before it had even fallen to the floor Jon was on her, too, his hands deep in her furs tugging at the garment’s clasps. They worked with quickened breaths, their excitement hard to contain. It had been almost a day since they last lay with each other and Jon was beginning to understand that his need of her was perhaps too great, that there was a growing possibility there were other forces at work in his desire for her. It was sometimes overwhelming how much he wanted her.

With her coat half off and his sword and scabbard propped against the wall, Dany was working at the laces of at his leather surcoat, his gloves dropped to the floor, while he delved into the opened slit down her front. Jon slid the palm of his hand down her belly to slip his fingers into her smallclothes. Her skin was on fire, and he cupped her sex needing that warmth. She was already soaked for him and Jon felt his patience with their complicated wardrobe disappear.

“Here, let me get it off,” he said, his voice rough as he stepped back to slide his coat from his shoulders. They heard the clunk as it dropped to the floor while Jon was already stripping away his shirt, Dany’s hands on the laces of his breeches as she tugged them down.

“I’ve got it. Lay back,” he commanded with heavy breaths, wanting to remove her clothes himself.

It took several more minutes, but once they were both nude, Jon couldn’t wait a moment longer and he nudged her legs open as they lay on her bed, and then they were as one, Jon sliding into her with a great sigh. She clenched around his hardness and he groaned, so relieved to be there, in that warm channel. The rest of the room faded away as Jon began to move, his mouth on hers, her moans filling his head, her legs around his arse, and the complaints and the dissension and Sansa’s angry face, and the voices of disappointment fell away, too. Jon gave in to his pleasure, slipped under the sea and dropped into utter silence.

Later, when they lay entwined in each other’s arms, Dany stroking the back of his head as he rested his head above her breast, he breathed another sigh in his contentment and weariness. He had shown Dany the land she was protecting, hoping to convey why he held it so dear. They’d flown over the Wolfswood, up past Deepwood Motte, with Rhaegal and Drogon swooping down between mountains until he thought he might throw up. He’d taken her to the majestic waterfalls near the Bay of Ice, and that they’d been able to make it there in less than an hour had seemed like magic. They’d come back by way of the Long Lake, scanning the Kingsroad before returning to Winterfell. He wished he’d been able to take Arya on such a flight. She would have surely thrilled to its glory.

“Do you think Rhaegal would let me take my sister up for a ride?” he asked lazily, basking in Dany’s warmth. Drogon had allowed Dany to transport all of his party from the frozen lake, after all.

“Your sister does not strike me as a woman who has time for frivolity,” he heard Dany answer, feeling the rumble under his ear. Jon sucked in a breath. _Right._

“I meant Arya,” he said, leaning up to rest on his arm so he could meet her gaze. “The one you just met. You’re right, I can’t picture Sansa on the back of a dragon, either. There’s so much at stake right now, and plenty still to do. I feel guilty. We don’t have time for these dalliances, we could all be dead in a week, but … I also feel we need some respite from that reminder. It is too grim, otherwise.” He wanted to take a breath to enjoy his family and the people he loved, before the possibility they be taken from him again.

Dany stroked the side of his face and smiled warmly. “I agree, my love. It has been a difficult morning. I felt the loss of my child all over again to hear your brother speak of Viserion’s fate. Such blasphemy, that he be raised from death for mindless destruction. It is grotesque. But it is done. There will be a time for grieving later. For now, we must embrace life.”

It had hurt him to hear about Viserion, and her words filled him with shame again. He still felt responsible and should have recognized how fresh Dany’s grief was still. “I should let you get some rest,” he said. “I’ll send up a bath for you to relax in. We jumped right into the meet, and you’ve not had any time to yourself.”

“That does sound lovely.”

Jon sat up to disentangle them and get dressed. But as he pulled away, Dany took hold of his arm and kept him there. He looked back in expectation. A shy smile had settled in her features, an expression which did not adorn her face often, Jon noted.

“Perhaps, you can stay for just a bit longer.” Her eyes gleamed again, as they had before their coupling, but her teeth tugged at her bottom lip in a girlish gesture as if she doubted he would approve.

“What is it, Dany?”

She opened her mouth to speak before hesitating. Then with a widening smile, her eyes grew larger. “Where is your belt?” she asked in a breathy voice.

Jon felt his heart quicken, the nerves in his body leaving tingles all over him.

* * *

Sansa read the scroll again, her aggravation only soaring at the sour words. She’d warned Jon this would happen and her anger at him flared for perhaps the dozenth time today. He’d disappeared all afternoon and she could guess too easily with whom he might have been spending his time.

There was knocking at her door and she glanced up from the parchment, expecting it to be Jon. He’d promised he’d come see her before dinner. “Come in.”

When he walked in, a little flutter in her belly made her gulp, but she read the message aloud in a strong voice. Jon needed to understand the repercussions of his actions.

“Lord Glover wishes us good fortune, but he’s staying in Deepwood Motte with his men.”

Jon threw down his gloves, angered by the news. “House Glover will stand behind House Stark as we have for a thousand years, isn’t that what he said?” She rolled her eyes at his protestation. Surely he expected this? She shot up from her desk in her fury.

“I will stand behind _Jon Snow_ , he said,” she corrected. She looked back at her brother and acidly reminded him of what he’d given up. “The king in the North.” Sansa turned her back on him again and stormed her way across her room. She couldn’t look at him right now.

“I told you we needed allies.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going to abandon your crown,” she argued.

He repeated what he’d told Lyanna Mormont in the Great Hall, but Sansa was already tired of hearing it.

“I brought two armies with me. Two dragons!”

Her rage came up swiftly and she spun around to face him. “And a Targaryen queen!”

But Jon seemed incredulous. “Do you think we can beat the Army of the Dead without her? I fought them, Sansa. _Twice_ ,” and Sansa wanted to rage at that little detail yet she let him have his say. “You want to worry about who holds what title, I’m telling you it doesn’t matter. Without her, we don’t stand a chance!”

Done with his rant, her brother huffed in defeat, closing his eyes for a moment. But when he looked at her again, she felt a tug at her heart. He seemed worn through.

“Do you have any faith in me at all?”

“You know I do.” How could he think that of her? She believed in Jon more than anyone.

“She’ll be a good queen. For all of us. She’s not her father,” he insisted and for a moment, Sansa thought she saw a flinch in his eyes before he dropped his gaze.

The tension dispelled, Sansa sighed at Jon’s earnest declarations. She knew him too well. “No, she’s much prettier.”

There it was. Out of her and into the space between them. They could discuss it now. Jon smiled, as if warmly remembering a lover’s embrace and oh, for the briefest second, Sansa wanted to slap him, but knowing he would probably enjoy it she kept herself still.

“Did you bend the knee to save the North? Or because you love her?” she asked baldly.

Jon glanced up and she saw his fear stamped there and was suddenly unsure if she wanted to hear the answer.

“Sansa,” he started, and his voice was so heavy with remorse, his eyes now locked to hers. “You have to understand … it is because of Daenerys that I’m standing here right now. She saved my life. From a fate that … I don’t even want to think about. She didn’t have to, but she did it, answered a call for help from a stranger. That is who she is, and that is why she is here. She’ll save us all.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Sansa noted, waiting for Jon to just say it.

“How can you doubt that I want what’s best for the North?”

She sighed again, trying another approach. “How did you fall in the water, then?”

Jon’s eyes narrowed in his confusion. “What do you mean? What water?”

“You almost drowned,” she charged, the emotion back in her voice. “Bran told us what happened, that you could have died. And you went there _willingly_ when you told me you wouldn’t, that you wouldn’t put yourself in danger. But of course, you didn’t ask me, you didn’t consider what we were all supposed to do without a king, you just did it. Then to add insult to injury, you went to see Cersei – after I expressly asked you not to.”

“You never asked me, you demanded it of me,” he refuted, his voice rising again. “I had an opportunity to gain another powerful army. I know you don’t understand it, but I had a responsibility to our people, to do what was necessary to make this happen. She needed to see one to believe what was coming for all of us.”

“I don’t understand responsibility?” she almost shrieked. “Do you think we’ve been having a grand old time of it here while you’ve been gone? Do you know what I’ve had to go through with the Northern lords to try to appease them? To assure them you knew you what you were doing? And then there’s our brother, who I don’t know if you’ve noticed has gained an uncanny ability to spy on us all! What do you think that’s been like for me, Jon, wondering if at any moment he can see into my mind and know how often I’ve thought of you here, kissing me? Putting your hands on me? Do you think that was delightful? It was like having Ramsay imprison me all over again!” She felt the hot tears spring into her eyes and was furious with herself for losing her composure.

Jon gaped back at her when she finished, stunned into silence. After a beat, he looked quickly behind him at the door, but when he turned back to her, she saw his ire extinguished. He came closer to her and grabbed for her hand, holding it tight. Leaning in to her, he spoke in a whisper.

“Sansa, calm down. It’s alright. I’m here with you.”

“And what does that mean?”

“I’m sorry, that I left you alone to go through that.” Jon closed his eyes as he breathed out. “Does he … has he said anything that suggests he … that he knows?”

Sansa grew quiet, feeling calmed by her brother. “No. I don’t think he’s aware. And if he is, I don’t think he cares.”

Jon looked disturbed by such a notion. “Why do you say that? Of course he would care. You said he saw me fall through the ice, Sansa. Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Has he seen anything else about me?”

“Why don’t you go ask him yourself?”

Jon took another long resigned breath, but then he cupped her cheek and met her eyes, the soulfulness there in his gaze capturing Sansa’s will. “Sansa,” he said her name with such purpose, that deep rumble of his voice felt in every part of her body. “We have our siblings returned to us. The Army of the Dead is practically at our gates. I don’t know how long we have to remain as a family. Please. I don’t want to fight with you.”

She clutched his wrist where he held her face, her need to kiss him so great it hurt her. “I don’t want to fight with you, either, Jon. I never have.”

His eyes glistened as he swallowed tightly, and his hand inched up until he held the back of her head in his grip. “I love Bran. And I love Arya. But you know that you are the one that I turn to. You know what we are to each other, what you mean to me,” and he held her eyes, imparting to her everything in that look and Sansa felt her lip tremble. She nodded her head forcefully as a sob rose in her throat. Saw his tears unshed as Jon looked up at the light, watched as he closed his eyes with a squaring breath. “I didn’t … mean for this to happen, Sansa, I swear to you. I would never want to hurt you,” his eyes sprang open, his voice hot and sharp, “you _know_ that. It was not my intention to feel this way. I’m sorry. She is … she’s a good person. You’ll see.”

A tear escaped and fell upon her cheek and she felt it trickle down as she grasped his meaning. “If she’s so good, then why did she make you bend the knee before she decided to help us?”

Jon’s eyes widened at first, before he turned his face away, his sight on the window as she saw his struggle there in his features, another hard swallow and a clench in his jaw as he debated whatever it was he was about to say. He squeezed his eyes tight again before speaking.

“She didn’t,” he finally breathed.

“She didn’t what?”

He faced her then, his voice bolder. “She didn’t demand I bend the knee. She pledged to help us. She’d just lost her dragon, a child to her, it was my fault it happened, and yet she swore to me that she would fight with us anyway. And so I … swore fealty to her. I saw who she was at that moment. Daenerys is the one to lead us.”

Sansa felt the breath knocked out of her. “What?” she asked dully, disbelieving at first. “You … gave away your crown and you didn’t have to?”

But Jon grew agitated, and he grimaced cruelly as he responded to her with a hiss. “Sansa – you and I both know I have no business being the king.” He scoffed in disgust. “What am I supposed to say to a man who comes before me to be judged? How can I look him in the eyes and tell him how he was wrong? Am I supposed to be better than him?”

She hadn’t expected that justification for selling the North, and she faltered in her attack for a moment. “You are a good king, Jon. You didn’t harm anyone, you didn’t do anything bad.” She didn’t regret any of what had happened between them, and it pained her that he did. Sansa had known plenty of bad people. Jon was nothing like them. What they had done hadn’t hurt anyone.

He was confounded by her answer. “I’ve done plenty that was bad.”

She felt her frustration with his reasoning fizzle out the worst of her anger. “So I was right then. You gave up the North for love.”

Jon pulled his hand away from her and held it up, as if he might grab hold of her heart and crush it in his fist. “Sansa, I didn’t. Is it so far a stretch, the idea that I might have made my decision without any emotion at all? My feelings don’t matter here. I spent months learning about her from her people, I saw her go off into battle, I heard her stories and of her desire to help those who needed help. If we survive this, she will bring peace to the land. And we can be part of that rebuilding. I wasn’t born to rule the North, Sansa, it is not my birthright. But if anyone is to sit on that throne, then it should be her. And she is here now, to _help_ us.” He huffed again, his eyes still on her trying to plead his case where his words could not. “It can be both, Sansa. I kneeled to her because of those qualities I saw in her. And it is because of those qualities that I love her. Please don’t hold that against Daenerys. It is me you are angry with, and I understand that, but she deserves none of your wrath.”

“And does she know?” Sansa asked, the words coming from her before she could think on it.

His brow furrowed as he reared his head back. “Does she know what?”

She only raised an eyebrow, no need to state the obvious. She knew her brother’s sense of honour was everything to him, and she wondered what that conversation would look like, Jon confessing such a thing to his queen. She saw her brother’s body again in her mind, as she had a hundred times, and imagined for the briefest, most delicious moment, the woman’s horror to learn that Sansa had been there first.

Jon sucked in a harsh breath. “Of course not. I would never speak of such things to anyone. That is between you and me. And that is where it will stay.”

It was a comfort to hear him say so. As much as she had feared her siblings discovering what she and Jon had become to each other, she had also worried about her brother’s need for penance. That he would keep them bound together in this secret meant she had a piece of him, still. And it was this promise more than anything else he’d said that allowed her to drop her anger. Jon had spoken the truth. They still had to survive this dead army come to kill them all. She wanted to spend as much time with him as she could, knowing that her brother would be fighting when they arrived, that she might lose him again.

She gave a deep sigh as she studied him. He did look tired. “You know I stand with you, Jon. But I don’t trust her. You might have seen these sides of her, but I don’t know her and she will have to earn my trust,” she conceded.

Even Tyrion falling under this woman’s sway had done nothing to promote Daenerys’s goodwill. She’d been shocked to realize her former husband had believed anything out of his sister’s mouth, and she questioned the integrity of the men surrounding the dragon queen, wondering what they saw in her. But she knew her brother, and wanted to give him the benefit of that understanding.

“She will,” he answered, looking as though a great weight had lifted from his shoulders.

“It might shock you to know this, but … I actually missed these arguments with you,” she said with a straight face, before breaking into a small smile.

He grinned back, and took her hands in his again. “Do you know how often I had thoughts of this moment, and dreaded it? I knew you would be angry with me. But it means so much that you gave me a chance to explain.” His smile softened and it was full of fondness. “I missed you, too. Terribly. All those months, and I had no one to chastise me with any regularity at all,” he teased.

But Sansa threw her arms around him then, squeezing him to her as if she would never let him go. She turned her face to kiss his neck, breathing him in, and felt the satisfaction of having him in her arms once more. He held her, too, rocking them gently to and fro, but then Sansa took another breath and pushed him back.

“What I didn’t miss is that stench,” she said with a cough and a chuckle. “Have you been rolling around in the pig pens? Gods, Jon, you reek.”

He glanced down at himself and laughed in agreement. “Oh, I suppose so. It must be Rhaegal,” he explained. “I can’t even smell it.”

“Rhaegal?”

He looked sheepish for a moment before he expounded. “Erm, one of Daenerys’s dragons. I went riding with her. It was … quite an experience.”

She frowned at the name, wondering why the queen would fashion the name of her dragon after her dead brother, a man who had raped and murdered Sansa’s aunt. “And you got on its back? Are you mad?”

“I think we know the answer to that question.”

She laughed, happy to slough off their tension with each other. “Well, alright, I suppose we should get you in the bath then. I’ll have Hollis get the guards to bring up your tub.”

Jon snapped up eyes at her, his tone guarded as he peered at her with caution in his gaze. “Sansa. I can bathe myself. You don’t need to be there.”

Sansa smiled sweetly to him, reminding him through her eyes how she could make him feel. “I’m just going to wash your hair,” she said innocently.

And then she watched his face relax and she knew that her brother would let her.

* * *

Arya was stalking the corridors again, keeping out of sight of the guards. Even though they were her family’s guards, it was a hard habit to break and she took note of the many guests and strangers who were parading around the grounds and about the castle as she had moved from dwelling to dwelling. She’d left Gendry back at the forge with her drawing of the weapon she’d designed, hoping he could get it completed in time. She would be ready for these dead men, and it was an odd thing to realize she was grateful for the waif’s relentless instruction on sparring with a staff, even while she was blind. The training had prepared her for this fight.

She remembered admitting to the waif how she’d left the Hound to die, not expecting to ever see him again. But now he was here, and it made everything more real to see him at Winterfell ready to fight for them. Seeing Gendry was stranger still, but she had enjoyed teasing him, viewing him with different eyes now. She’d been through so much since they’d last crossed paths she didn't even feel like the same person.

While skulking around the forge, she had watched some Dothraki men trying to discuss their weaponry with the blacksmiths in their limited knowledge of the Common tongue, and Arya had found their hooked blades fascinating as she observed them. There were many languages being spoken around the castle and yet it somehow put her at ease, the din of voices harkening back to her time on the streets of Braavos as she had plied her wares from her cart. The Unsullied didn’t say much, and most wore their helmets so their faces were shielded from her eyes, but Arya had noticed one woman with dark skin and the most extraordinary hair, who had spoken to each of them, Dothraki and Unsullied, and Northmen alike, in their own tongue. She had been standing with the queen when Arya had returned with Jon to the Keep.

Arya had left him then, and watched as he’d escorted the queen inside with her entourage, but it was dark out now and so she was off to visit with him again before supper. She ran up the steps to the family’s floor, and made quick work of it to get to Jon’s chambers. As she arrived at his door, she heard a woman’s surprised cry and froze in place, right as she was about to knock. It sounded like Sansa. She knew how angry her sister was at Jon but she thought she might give him one night before she laid into him. There was laughter suddenly, and then a deep voice speaking and Arya frowned as she rapped her knuckles on the wood.

“Come in,” she heard two voices beckon in unison.

Arya came through the door, feeling herself tense up, yet was wholly unprepared for the scene which awaited her.

“Arya, where have you been?” her brother greeted her, full of good cheer.

Jon sat in a tub near the hearth. His wet shoulders glistened from the firelight and they rounded forward as he slumped in his seat, their sister at his back with a sponge in hand, still in her leathered-bound dress. They both wore big grins on their faces as they turned to her.

“I’ve been about,” she said off-handedly, still stymied by what she was seeing. “Thought I’d come find you to take you to supper.” They had planned to dine late in the solar, just the family, the queen’s party taken to their chambers to rest from their long journey. There would be a feast the next evening in Daenerys’s honor, although with their current rationing it wouldn’t be a lavish banquet by any means. But Arya supposed it was the effort made that would be noted.

“Well before we sit with our brother at the table, I decided it best we get the stink of dragon dung off of him first,” Sansa said, a smirk in his direction as she leaned in to his shoulder, her face hovering near his. Jon turned back to grin at her.

“Aye, I was informed it was quite bad.”

Arya had come farther into the room to where his copper tub sat and her nose wrinkled at the news.

“Why did you smell like dragon dung?” she asked, still feeling thrown by their languorous depiction of domesticity. It reminded her of the way Mother would often give Father a bath, and the times she’d have to sit there with them while he lectured her on some wrongdoing or other of hers.

“Because our brother is an idiot,” Sansa said gleefully, and Jon fanned a hand across the water backwards to splash at her. She screeched like a girl as she ducked from the spray, before dipping her hand in front of him to scoop a handful of the bathwater in his face. He held up a hand to ward her off, but laughed joyously all the while. Arya stood speechless watching it all.

“I went up on the back of Rhaegal,” Jon finally explained as he wiped the water from his face. “Arya, you would have loved it. It was absolutely incredible. We saw everything from the air, miles of country. All of the North, wherever I looked.”

“You did what?” That sounded mad. And impossible. It had been hundreds of years since anyone other than a Targaryen had ridden a dragon. These beasts of the queen were definitely a new breed.

“Arya, come sit with us,” Sansa offered graciously, pointing towards the stuffed chair that sat by the hearth. “I still need to do his hair. You can hand me that bottle in the basket.”

She propped Needle up against the chair and then reached down and tossed the bottle to her sister. Jon’s hand shot up from the bathwater to catch it and then he gallantly handed it behind him to their sister. Arya sat down and eased back in the chair, raising a leg to prop her foot at its edge as she leaned against a wing comfortably. “So what made you go up on a dragon then? Did your queen anoint you or something?” She imagined it was more likely the or something.

“We went out to see why they weren’t eating. Well, not eating as much as they normally do. I don’t know, I thought I might as well give it a go. The queen thinks it might be good to have another rider during the attack.”

Arya took her Valyrian blade out and pressed its point to the inside of her palm as she watched them, twirling it around. She saw her sister’s gaze sharpen towards Jon at the mention of the dragon queen, but she stayed silent as she worked, rubbing some smelly lotion into Jon’s hair like he was a perfumed lord.

“That sounds smart. How does she control them anyway? Is it a series of commands? Do they just know? Dragons are very intelligent. They pick up on human responses, you know.”

Jon leaned his head up to Sansa and their faces were so close they looked like they were about to … do something. “Didn’t I tell you she would know?”

“Yes, congratulations. You were right about one thing.”

“Shut up,” he grinned.

“Did you see the Army of the Dead while you were up there?” Arya asked, irked by their coziness. She didn’t know why. “Are they any closer?”

Jon looked embarrassed for a moment. “I didn’t see them, no. We were over Deepwood Motte.” He craned his head back to Sansa again. “I should have stopped by for a visit,” he said in a low rumble, and the two of them tittered with each other in some shared secret.

“What’s going on at Deepwood Motte? Isn’t Lord Glover on his way?”

Sansa looked up from scrubbing her brother’s head and glanced to Arya, her expression quite grave. “Lord Glover … can go fuck himself.”

And oh, how Jon laughed at that, a great bark coming from him as his head rolled back. They looked at each other again, Sansa so pleased with a smug smirk at her lips. Arya didn’t think it was terribly funny.

“What’s up with Glover? Is he being an arsehole still?” She remembered how he had spoken against Jon, bowing before Sansa as if she were their queen, as if they had a right to pass around crowns whenever they were disgruntled with one leader and could quickly move on to the next.

But Jon turned suddenly grim. “He’s not coming. They’re taking their chances with the dead. I fear they will not be successful.” He narrowed eyes at her. “Where did you get that knife? That’s Valyrian steel.”

“Bran gave it to me,” she said, noticing Sansa’s eyes going wide behind Jon’s head.

“Where did Bran get it?”

“Littlefinger gave it to him. Bit ironic, that.” Sansa began to shake her head to Arya in warning.

“Why do you say that? Why was Littlefinger giving our brother a Valyrian blade?”

“It was the same dagger used by the man who came to assassinate Bran when he was a boy, after he’d fallen from the tower,” Sansa said into Jon’s ear, her lips brushing up against him.

Jon was growing more disturbed, his head weaving as Sansa massaged his scalp. “And how did Littlefinger come into possession of this knife?”

“Littlefinger’s dead,” Arya stated flatly. “It doesn’t matter how he got it.”

“Jon, I need to rinse your hair,” her sister interjected. “Lie back.”

“Wait,” he said, keeping his eyes on Arya. “Who was it that took his head after his sentence was passed?” Arya saw Sansa shaking her head even harder, her eyes holding a demand to keep quiet. But Arya didn’t want to evade the truth. She was Ned Stark’s daughter. Jon would understand.

“We didn’t take his head,” she told him. “His throat was cut.” She held the dagger up by its steel, the hilt towards the sky. “With this. Rather fitting, I’d say.”

Jon straightened up in the bath, his shoulders wide. “It was you?” He didn’t look surprised by it at all.

Arya smirked. “Wot, you think I wasn’t listening to Father when he spoke to you boys?”

He nodded gravely, lost in thought. “I’m glad you kept to our ways, then.”

There was a heavy sigh from Sansa and her hand caressed Jon’s shoulder to slide up his neck. “Jon, lean back. Let me finish,” she said softly.

She watched her brother comply with their sister’s wishes, laying back on the folded cloth Sansa had pressed to the bath’s edge for his comfort, she noted. As he leaned back, she saw more skin of his chest slide out of the water and frowned at what she saw there.

“Where’s Bran, by the way,” he asked. “Did someone remember to bring him out of the godswood? He’ll catch his death out there.”

“I saw him near the Library Tower earlier,” Arya told him. “He was waiting for someone, he said.”

“Who would be coming to see Bran?” Jon asked. It hadn’t really occurred to Arya to ask. She tended to trust whatever Bran did.

“Lean back a bit more,” Sansa nudged again, and Arya frowned even harder at the way her sister was rubbing the water back from Jon’s forehead, something so gentle and loving about it. When Jon angled back, his arms spread out along the edges, she saw more of his wounds. She gulped hard, feeling distressed by the entire scene.

“How many times did they stab you?”

Sansa snapped her head up as Jon sat up with a splash. They both blinked back at her, and Arya had the strangest sensation, as if she was a third party that had no business being in their intimate little reunion.

“A lot,” Jon said with some sarcasm, his mouth in a lopsided grin. “There was a fair amount of them who mutinied,” he said dismissively, as if this was just another thing to make jokes about. Arya thought about the gouges in her own belly, the cut marks across her abdomen, and had a sudden urge to share them, too. To show her brother that she had some understanding of what he went through.

“We don’t need to talk about that,” Sansa decreed, opening the linen by her lap which she promptly dropped across Jon’s hair. She began to rub it dry, his head bobbing back and forth again with her forceful motions.

“What about when you woke –” she began but there was a rap at the door and all three of them turned towards it.

“There, that’s probably Bran now,” Sansa said. “Come in,” she called.

But the door remained closed. It was quiet on the other side.

“You can come in, Bran,” Jon rang out.

After another beat, the door’s latch finally clanged open, and they listened to the drawn out squeak as it widened slowly.

A small silver-haired figure in white furs walked in on delicate steps. Arya bolted up as she saw the dragon queen step into Jon’s chambers with some hesitancy. Her skin was porcelain and her eyes were wide like a doll’s and she blinked back at them all as if she’d stepped through a portal to another world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dany is up next. I know y'all have been waiting to hear from her.
> 
> Just a quick note about the timeline. I have two markers to work with from 8x01 to the end of 8x02 - At the beginning of "Winterfell", Sansa addresses Ned Umber in the Great Hall and bids him to head back to Last Hearth and bring back his people with the last of their food wagons. By the end of the episode, little Ned is in Last Hearth as part of a nifty art installation. According to the GoT Distance Calculator and various maps, its almost 500 miles from WF to LH.
> 
> In 8x02, Tormund, Beric, Edd and co have arrived to WF in the middle of the episode and they had to travel from Last Hearth after finding Ned's dead, baby, Ned's dead. They at least had horses on the Kingsroad from there, but still, that's about a fortnight.
> 
> And when Bran is waiting for Jaime at the end of the episode, when Sam runs into him, its dark, and when Jaime shows up, its light. So it could have been the next morning, it could have been several mornings later. My point is, I have a lot of time to play with before The Long Night.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings, all. Holiday season is fully upon us. As mentioned elsewhere, Christmas Day will be a full year that I began posting this fic. Crazy.
> 
> I want to thank mimreads once again for her help on this chapter. And also - you must go and see her new artwork for Book II-Dragonstone (ch. 18). It is STUNNING. I love it so much.
> 
> I very often reference my favorite episodes, and certainly the ones herein are included in that list. My heart still breaks for Bran. Thanks so much to everyone commenting. I will say, however, that re-reading some of my responses made me cringe a bit, as I talk way too much. I'll try to tone it down.

**.xxxii**

Daenerys came down the last step and took a look to either side of her as she tried to determine which way Jon’s chambers were in the keep. She turned to Grey Worm.

“ _Skore ñuhoso gaomagon ao pendagon, Torgo Nudho_?”

He pointed to their left and she began to walk down the short corridors that tucked and turned in a maze of doors, and after traversing down a few she was already lost. Grey Worm edged the tip of his spear towards one corner, where a Northern guard stood by a door to the other side of him. She walked over to him, the man straightening at attention as soon as he saw her. He bent his head to her as she came up.

“Your Grace.”

“I am looking for the Warden of the North,” she said. “Is this where his chambers are?” She nodded towards the door.

“No, Your Grace, it is farther down, half a click over on your right,” he pointed. “I can take you to him.”

“No, it’s all right, I’ll find it. Stay at your post,” she said confidently, wanting to find Jon herself. She turned to Grey Worm and nodded to him to convey that he could leave her now. Grey Worm looked at the Northern guard with a pinched face, but nodded back and turned to head back to her rooms.

Dany followed the corridor down, thinking of her last conversation with Ser Jorah as she walked. It had been after the disastrous exchange with the young Samwell Tarly, where she had discovered his relation to Randyll Tarly and the son she had burned. An unpleasant interaction which had left Jorah abashed at having brought her to him. But as they had left the library, she found herself thinking about Jon, wondering how he would have handled the Tarlys’ decision.

“Ser Jorah, you have had some time to spend with Jon Snow,” she had asked tentatively, as he had escorted her back to the Great Keep. He had flashed a troubled look to her, fearing what she may ask him, and she understood the magnitude of her request then, how Jon was another man that Ser Jorah had to witness come to her bed. “Through a very harrowing experience, I might add. I would ask of you … what do you think of him?”

No matter his feelings for her, Dany knew in her heart that Jorah would always be true to her now, that he would never lie to her again.

Ser Jorah had a grumbling breath in his throat before he could answer her, looking to the ground.

“Aye, I spoke to him a fair bit. On our voyage north, and once we left the Wall on our mission. I think he is a good man, Khaleesi. Just. Honourable.”

“Do you think he is too,” she stumbled at the words she would choose, careful in how she painted him, “Is he too soft, do you wonder? Do you think he is capable of being ruthless when it is called for?”

She recalled her words to Tyrion when discussing Jon. _He’s too little for me._ She had wanted to dismiss her growing feelings for him then, detach herself to prepare for him not coming back. But would a marriage to Jon make them a fearsome combination? Ser Barristan’s caution came back to her suddenly. _Sometimes it is better to answer injustice with mercy._ But then Ser Barristan had been killed by evil men, just as Jon had.

“I watched him fight. He is as fierce a soldier as any man, if not more so, and he led us, kept us focused on our task. I think he is a man who will do whatever is necessary and not flinch at his duty.”

“You said that Samwell Tarly was in the Night’s Watch, under your father. I know that Lord Snow has mentioned him as a close friend from his days there. Do you think this may cause strife between them?” She did not want to be responsible for that, but she was also curious who Jon would be loyal to first, if it came to that.

“I don’t know, Khaleesi. But permit me to speak freely. I do not think Jon Snow is likely to hold any of this against you. He is devoted to you. I’ve seen it. The declaration in the dragon pit of King’s Landing should have convinced you of that. Even when you came to the North for us, Snow fought to make sure you did not come to harm before he would climb on your dragon.”

Dany had felt that warmth then. Yes, Jon loved her, of that there was no question. But he also believed in her. And it was this thought that had kept her afloat through all of the dark glances and unfriendly stares from his people as they’d come through town, as they sat in the Great Hall of his castle before all of his bannermen, who were now hers in name only it seemed judging by their grim faces. Having him in her bed had given her some of her shaken confidence back, as he had allowed her to take control of his pleasure. Dany summoned the powerful memory of the slaves of Astapor, of how they had poured from the gates once she’d freed them and they’d surrounded her, had lifted her up on their shoulders, and the love that had buoyed her there by their gratitude had filled her heart, a feeling like no other – to be embraced by the people.

She had no such love for her here. Perhaps once she saved these cold people from the army of the dead. Until then, only in Jon Snow could she find solace.

Daenerys took another turn at the end of the corridor and followed the guard’s direction, her hand at her throat as she felt the cold draft in these halls. The cold had sunk into her bones as they had traveled on the Kingsroad, and Dany wanted the fire of Jon’s body to warm her more keenly than ever. She should have worn her crimson cravat, her neck exposed to the chill, but her thoughts had been on the expediency with which she could shed her clothes once she found him.

As she came down the final corridor, she saw a great and heavy door up ahead and felt another thrill at the idea of being in Jon’s room, in his bed. She wanted to see the way he lived, to know more of him. She strode towards it, her boot heels clicking on the stones in sure steps. Yet when she was in front of his door, a sudden fear washed over her, as she thought of what might await her. There was no guard here, which was surprising. She took a deep breath and knocked lightly.

“Come in,” she heard a woman’s voice call.

Dany stepped back in confusion. She looked to the left and right of her again, but there were no other doors. She was sure she had followed the right course.

But then she had heard Jon call out. “You can come in, Bran,” rang the strong timbre of his voice.

Daenerys paused, not sure if she should enter. Would she be welcome here? Then she shook her head to pull herself out of such girlish timidity. She was their queen. She could go where she chose. Dany stiffened her back and turned the door knob, not knowing what she might find.

She came upon three faces, all blinking back at her in variations of surprise.

Jon was in his bath, of all places, bookended by his sisters in front of the hearth. Dany sucked in a breath at the sight. This was not at all what she had expected.

“Oh. I didn’t mean to intrude,” she said quickly, feeling the awkwardness permeate the room. She waved behind her to the door still hanging ajar. “Should I come back later?”

“Your Grace,” Jon said hoarsely, his shock at her presence severe. He glanced at one of his sisters, the tall one who didn’t like her, and then back at Dany, his mouth dropped open. “I – er – you weren’t – I didn’t – it’s fine.” He turned to the short one and widened his eyes at her and the sullen sister stood up from her chair suddenly. The other one – Sansa – removed her fingers from Jon’s hair and slowly stood up from the floor to acknowledge her with a bold stare.

Jon looked down to his lap. “Forgive me, Your Grace, for not rising, although I expect you would prefer me to remain seated in my current state.”

Danerys glanced at the two girls again before nodding to Jon. “Oh, not at all. Go on then.” She held out a hand and waved him up.

All three of them froze, before one sister darted a glance at Jon in horror, while Sansa narrowed her gaze sharply at Dany in a most unflattering way. Jon was positively mortified if his expression was anything to go by.

“A joke,” she said quickly with a grin, holding up her hands in a truce. These two would be a tough nut to crack.

There was a palpable release of tension as they all breathed out, a few dry laughs from the little one and Jon as they attempted to find humour in it.

“Was there anything you needed, Your Grace?” Jon asked before looking to the linen his sister had strewn to the floor with longing. If the entire mood had not been so uncomfortable, she would have had a good laugh at his obvious discomfort. “Anything we can get for you?”

“Yes, you must tell us if you are lacking in anything to which you are accustomed, Your Grace. I do hope you found your chambers satisfactory,” Sansa added with a blank face. This one excelled at schooling her emotions, she could see.

“They are extraordinarily comfortable, thank you, Lady Sansa. My handmaidens are not used to the cold, so the fires waiting were much appreciated. And the bath was most welcome,” she said, her gaze shifted to Jon as she clasped her hands together. She walked closer to them. “But I see I am not the only one who needed a good wash after our long ride.”

She wondered at his sisters’ involvement, if this was customary with his family. She thought back to her baths as a girl, when Viserys would feel he had every right to touch and inspect her body at will, how she had come to loathe them, and the smile froze to her face as her disturbing memories tumbled through.

“We decided Jon smelled really bad after you took him up on your dragon,” the one who dressed like a man stated, settling back in her chair.

“Ah, right. They do get rather rank,” she agreed with a wider smile, “Lady Arya.” She suddenly remembered her name from the afternoon introduction.

“I’m no lady,” the girl snapped back.

“Arya, why don’t you let her Grace sit down? You can take my chest.” Jon waved her to his massive trunk. The young woman went to move but Dany didn’t imagine she wanted to stay in such a tense atmosphere.

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself. I can come another time. I simply wanted to – _Oh!”_ She jolted, stopping a scream in her throat.

For right then, the biggest wolf she had ever seen came up next to her. She took a step back in surprise and the animal leaned down to touch its snout to her elbow, its head almost at her shoulder.

“Ghost!” the three of them yelled at once. “Go sit by the fire, Ghost,” Jon instructed the beast with a toss of his head, and Dany was shocked into understanding. “Leave her be,” his master warned him, and red eyes turned to Jon for a moment. Its fur was all white, just as hers were, and the beast’s eyes made her think of Drogon’s back and the color in her sigil.

“ _This_ is Ghost?” she said, aghast. She’d thought he’d been discussing a dog when he’d called it a family pet.

“Don’t worry, he won’t harm you,” Arya told her, snapping her fingers to the beast.

“I’m not worried,” Dany had said calmly. But instead of walking away, the beast sniffed her again, before moving his great snout to bury into the space of her crotch. “Oh!” she squeaked again, followed by a laugh this time as she backed away. She went to stay her hand at the top of his head, between his ears, and he sniffed at her sex again. An interest very much in tune with his master, it appeared.

“Ghost!” Jon bellowed with a mortified face, his eyes blown wide, as Arya burst into laughter, a trilling scale of giggles as her head fell back, and even the mouth on the other one attempted to stifle a smirk.

“I am so sorry,” he apologized in earnest. “He’s usually not that curious about people.”

With another chuckle, Dany looked behind her to see if she needed to shut the door from the draft, but it seemed the wolf had already done so. She glanced back to see that it had gone up to his master and was licking at his ear. Jon patted the animal with a paternal coaxing. “Go on then. The adults are talking now.”

She felt the smile curve up on her face, the image of Jon stroking this magnificent wolf setting off an erotic charge throughout her. Knowing how unleashed he could be in bed, it stood to reason that he would be connected to such a wild thing.

“You have a direwolf for a pet. Of course you would,” she said.

“Yours is not the only house associated with fearsome beasts, Your Grace,” Sansa spoke suddenly, her expression still giving away nothing but for the arch of an eyebrow. “My brother is of the North, and our sigil is no mere symbol. The wolves are loyal to him.”

“Sansa.” The name tumbled heavy from Jon’s lips, a look to his sister in warning.

“We had more of them,” the younger one said. “One for each of Ned Stark’s children.” Daenerys looked to Arya, where the girl still slunk in her chair. She had a sword leaning next to her and a dagger in her lap, Dany noticed; she’d seen the girl wearing them earlier. Jon had indicated fondly that she had acted more like a boy when they’d been growing up.

“What happened to them,” Dany asked.

“Most of them died,” the girl said with some gravity, Dany understanding that she might as well have been referring to members of her family as she took in the remaining Stark faces before her.

“I’m so sorry,” she offered.

“You lost one of your dragons, too,” Arya said, with a shrewdness that suggested the girl was still leery of her. “They call you their mother. So how exactly did you manage to birth dragons into the world again?”

“Arya, don’t be rude,” her brother said.

“No, she’s not,” Dany spoke up. “It’s all right. I don’t mind talking about it.” She came a few steps closer to their little group, with the wolf watching her from the hearth, Jon’s eyes hot on her.

“I dreamt of them,” she confessed. “Weeks before they were born. I would watch the eggs at night, keeping them warm by the fires, and would sometimes imagine I could hear their little scritches and sighs coming from inside, telling me they were eager to be born. Every night I would see them in my mind, knew what they would look like already, down to the colors of their scales.”

All three of them watched her now, with expectant faces, and Dany thought back to that night again, heard the whoosh and snaps of the flames in her ears.

“When my husband died, I made a great pyre for him, under the blanket of the night sky. I placed my dragons’ eggs by his head, in a halo, and when we set the structure on fire, I knew that they would be waiting for me, that they were ready to be born inside of the flames. I stepped into the fire – ”

“You did what?” Arya interrupted, confusion written across her features. “You stepped into the _fire_?”

“Yes.”

“Into the _flames_?” she clarified again.

“Yes,” Dany answered calmly. “I had dreamt it. I knew I would not be hurt. I walked through walls of flame and all I could hear was a wild roar, like the swell of a great ocean wave, and the crashes of the wooden beams as they disintegrated around me. My husband was above me, where my children were waking, but as his body burned away I felt their life pulsing, like the biggest blinking stars.” She held out her hands, her palms open and eyes closed as she remembered. “Then I heard the shells cracking, tearing open, heard their squawks. I sat down, crossed my legs, and the fire seemed to rage inside me now. The pyre began to fall away, breaking apart with sighing whispers. And then I felt fluttering around my head. Felt them land,” she tapped each shoulder, “one on my shoulder, one on my back, and one in my lap, with their little wriggling bodies. I heard their cries for me and knew that I was their mother; that they would be part of me forever.” A worthy replacement for the child she’d lost.

She opened her eyes to them then. Arya gaped at her in wonder, she saw with some satisfaction, while Jon’s face – Jon’s face made her pulse quicken, her heart race to see such a brazen desire plastered there. Her breasts ached for him, knowing intimately what he wanted to do to her right then, his eyes black and his lip curled in a particularly Ghost-like fashion. It was to him she spoke to as she finished her tale.

“When the fire had burned out, they clutched at me. I felt their little claws dig in my skin as they climbed over me, their nibbles, as they sang me their songs. The sun had risen. My husband was gone, but my children were born.”

It was quiet after she finished, the younger one glancing towards her brother at first. Jon’s sight never left Dany, his eyes still on hers, and suddenly she wanted the sisters gone.

“That’s incredible,” Arya finally said.

“Well, the moment certainly stayed with me,” Dany commented lightly, smirking as she slid eyes toward her.

The tall one stood up. “That is a most interesting story, Your Grace. I thank you for sharing it with us. But you’ll need to excuse me, I’m afraid, as I have some business to tend to in the kitchens. Shall I have the servants send you anything else up before you retire? My family and I are about to go have a late supper.”

“I’m quite alright, thank you for asking, Lady Sansa.”

Lady Sansa shot a dark glance toward her brother, then over his head to share a look with her sister before turning to leave. She gave a small curtsy to Dany and then walked past on hurried steps as she made her way to the door. A moment after it shut, Jon turned his head partially towards the other one, his eyes still locked on Dany.

“Arya, why don’t you go and find Bran,” Jon said out of the side of his mouth. “He needs to come in now.”

Arya swiveled her head towards her brother with a bullish glare. “Why do I have to get Bran? Why not send Brienne’s squire?”

“Because you’re here, and I’m asking _you_ ,” he replied with some gruffness.

“Fine,” she said with a roll of her eyes, standing up to slide her thin blade into her belt. “I’ll leave you to your _bath_ then.” She looked to Dany with a curt bow of her head. “Your Grace,” she said archly, crossing her arms behind her back like a proper little lord.

As soon as the girl left, Dany turned to Jon. He was already rising, the water making peppering drips as he stood in the tub. Her eyes traveled down his body, enjoying those acres of pale flesh and hard muscle, noting his excitement for her in his stiffened length as he climbed out. She heard a gruff snort and her eyes shot up to see his wolf staring at her. Jon kneeled down before her, his hands to her thighs, and she saw the same wildness there in his face. It was a potent mixture between the two of them.

“And are you going to sniff me, too,” she mused aloud, running a hand over his hair.

“I’ll do more than that,” he replied, his voice so deep that her nipples hardened just from the promise it delivered.

It was all that she needed to hear.

“Yes, you will.”

Jon leaned in and kissed her between her legs, upon the fur of her frock coat. “My queen,” he growled. “Let me taste you.”

“All right,” she answered, feeling breathless, and Jon lifted her up and carried her off to his bed.

* * *

“Pass the jelly, please.”

Arya sat at the table with Sansa and Bran in the solar, watching them both curiously as they all waited for Jon. The servants had left them to get more food, and Arya took the boat from her sister to drop spoonfuls of mint jelly upon her mutton chops, the room oddly silent, as if no conversation could begin until they were graced with their big brother’s presence.

“Pass the potatoes, please.”

Sansa snapped up her head in annoyance. “Arya, can’t you just get it yourself. You’re not strapped to your chair.” She’d been in a foul mood since they’d left Jon’s room.

It had been an odd thing, though, when Arya had left to retrieve Bran from outdoors. She’d not gone but a few corridors down when she’d seen Sansa heading towards her own chambers from the stairs, a guard following her with hastened steps behind her while darting his head this way and that. Arya had jerked back behind a wall and watched them turn a corner together. Thinking of the moment now, Arya felt her suspicions were becoming more and more concrete and she wondered about her sister’s experiences with men. She was pretty sure she recognized the guard, even with his helmet on.

Boots on the stone outside disrupted her thoughts and then Jon was striding into the room, dressed in his armor. Ghost traipsed in behind him, instantly making his way to the hearth, where he circled around a few times before dropping his body down with a _flump_.

“Sorry I’m late,” Jon said in a rush as he came up behind their chairs. He leaned down to kiss Bran on his head then did the same to her as he made his way round the table; she felt him leave a peck on the crown of her scalp. When he came to the empty seat next to Sansa, he craned his head as he bent over so he could kiss the side of her face. Sansa lifted her cheek to him, her eyes sliding in his direction but then she quickly looked away to the platters of food on the table and began to prepare a plate for him.

“Lovely of you to join us,” she cracked dryly, as she used tongs to drop his chop on the pewter.

Sitting down, Jon turned to her and dropped a hand to the back of her head as he leaned in once more. “Thank you for arranging this for us, Sansa. I’ve been looking forward to sharing a meal with my family all day.” He pulled a napkin from the tuck of his plate and spread it over his lap as he beamed up at all of them with a generous smile. “All of my family.”

“Did you escort the dragon queen back to her chambers?” Arya questioned with a rise of her eyebrows, playing it off innocently. “I hope you didn’t get lost.” Jon flashed a warning look at her while settling in his seat, but then quickly glanced back at Sansa with some worry.

“Don’t keep calling her that, Arya. It’s Daenerys.”

“Oh, I can address her that way?”

He gave her a suffering look.

“I’m sure the queen was tended to just fine without Jon’s help. She certainly brought enough people with her,” Sansa remarked offhandedly, though her words were clipped. Jon darted a glance to her again.

He cleared his throat. “This looks delicious,” he commented to no one in particular, though it was obviously meant for Sansa, Arya gleaned. Jon waxed down each side of his moustache with the back of a knuckle as he picked up a fork.

There was a strange density which seemed to collude in the air, a thousand whispers tied together, and Arya questioned the nature of it. She had longed for a moment like this, yet here they all were and there was so much at play between them, an undercurrent of unspoken truths that she wished to be exposed. Everyone was so civil, and she abhorred it. She wanted to know everything about her family since she’d last seen them.

“The Imp seemed quite different,” she said, hoping to start some meaningful conversation. “From the last time he was here at Winterfell. Much more somber. I guess killing your father will do that to you.”

“You mean Lord Tyrion, the Hand to the Queen?” Sansa shook her head with a disapproving note. “Honestly, Arya, the years have not made you any more observant of titles.”

“Fine, then. Lord Tyrion has become remarkably less fun since he murdered Tywin Lannister.”

She almost respected it. The elder Lannister had been a force, for sure. She recalled only too well how he had made grown men cower before him, diminishing each of them before his assembled council. She had even felt bad for that cunt who had tried to turn her in for the space of a second. But perception of the family had been everything with Tywin and she mused what kind of man they had made of him in the mummer’s plays that toured the country. Reminded of Lady Crane’s depiction of Cersei, she studied Sansa, and that awful murderous actress who had played her popped into her mind.

“Have you spoken to him yet?” she asked her sister while picking up a roll. “What was that like?”

Sansa frowned as she spooned a big heap of peas and onions onto Jon’s plate. “It was fine. Tyrion is a reasonable man. I think he’s ridiculous to trust his sister, but he seems to think she has something to protect which will bind her to her oath. Her children are all dead. I can’t imagine that woman cares about anything else.”

“You weren’t there, Sansa. You didn’t see her reaction. Let’s try to give her the benefit of the doubt.”

Sansa shot another look towards Jon, her expression dubious, but then went back to snapping her tongs onto some bread to add to their brother’s plate. Jon brushed at his moustache with a thumb again, rubbing at his bottom lip as he watched her.

“She does have something to protect.”

They all swung their heads towards Bran, the first words he’d spoken since Arya had rolled him in the room. His cheeks had been freezing cold when she’d collected him from his post at the Library tower watching the late stragglers come into the courtyard, and she suspected it had taken him some time to defrost.

“And what is that?” Sansa snapped.

There was a long pause and Jon gave a questioning look to Arya as they waited.

“Life,” was all Bran offered, before leaning over with a knife in hand to carve up his chop.

“Tyrion has made some mistakes, but he knows his family better than any of us,” Jon said before biting down on his mutton.

“Sansa was his family at one point,” Arya suggested plainly. “Before Littlefinger ran off with her and sold her to the Boltons.” She knew from the trial that Baelish had taken Sansa to the Eyrie first, to stay with Aunt Lysa, and that Sansa had been there when he pushed their aunt through the moon door. She had worked it out that her sister had just left for Runestone when she arrived with the Hound. They could have passed each other at the Bloody Gate if she had made it a few minutes earlier.

With a mouthful of food, her brother waved a knife in the air as he gulped down. “Can we keep Baelish out of it for tonight? It was bad enough when he was here.”

But Arya was curious about Sansa’s marriage to the imp and as she drank from her ale, she watched her sister at the mention of Tyrion. She thought of the plays again, how he’d been portrayed as a lecherous conniver, the way he’d ripped at the fake Sansa’s blouse and exposed her tits to the delight of at least half of the crowd. Surely he’d been nothing like that with her sister in real life? The writer, Izembaro, had certainly gotten the murder of Joffrey wrong and hadn’t appeared to know anything about her father at all. _Full to the tits_ _with ideas._

“Tyrion’s family treated him horribly,” Sansa said, getting them back on topic. “I mean, he loves his brother, but the rest of them were horrid to him. The wedding was such a farce.” She seemed to realize what she’d just said and oddly, glanced to Bran with some concern.

“What was that like? Did you have to go through a bedding?”

“Arya!” Jon snapped dark eyes to her. “That’s hardly appropriate for dinner conversation.”

But having become acutely aware of the fact that Jon was sleeping with the dragon queen, the idea of sex was strong in her mind. She thought of the multitude of times men had threatened to rape her while she’d traveled, the way the Hound had cavalierly informed her of how the peasants had gotten Sansa on her back, how they would have taken her every which way if he hadn’t come along. Arya thought of her sister’s words – _you wouldn’t have survived what I survived._ Sex didn’t sound like all that much fun.

“Sorry, I was just asking.”

Sansa took her up on it, however, speaking breezily. “Tyrion threatened Joffrey at the suggestion. He sunk a dagger in the table and told the king that he’d be fucking with a wooden cock if Joffrey deigned to go through with it. You can imagine the reaction to that. His father had to step in or else Joffrey would have surely had him drawn and quartered right there. Of course, Tyrion was a drunken mess throughout the entire evening.”

Ayra smirked at her prim sister using such profanity lately, and wondered where it had come from. Jon was not usually one for such colorful language.

“That does seem to be his preferred state during any feast,” Jon added sagely.

But her sister grew pensive as she stared down at her food, scraping her peas about listlessly. “That didn’t stop Joffrey, though. He grabbed me before I could leave the hall, told me that it didn’t matter which Lannister put a baby in me now that I was in the family, his intentions quite clear. His face was so bloody gleeful when he said it. At least Littlefinger saved me from that.”

And then Jon had his hand to the other side of her head, pulling her to him so he could make soft shushing noises and kiss her temple. He leaned down and whispered something right into her ear and Sansa nodded, her eyes closed to keep her tears at bay. When he pulled away and went to reach for his fork, Sansa grabbed hold of the back of his hand, squeezing it tight with her thumb tucked under his. He let her keep it there and they stayed like that as Jon switched to using his other hand to pick up his drink, Arya watching it all unfold in utter bafflement. Jon turned to Bran with wide eyes.

“Bran, who were you waiting for outside? The temperatures grow colder the nearer the Night King gets. You can’t be out there all day.”

“An old friend,” Bran repeated in his bored tone, the same as he’d said to Arya earlier in the day when she’d seen him. But Arya would not remove her gaze from Jon and Sansa, studying them carefully while Bran spoke.

“I’m happy to hear you have some friends left,” Jon said. “Did you _see_ this visitor, or did you come by the information the way the rest of us do?”

“I saw him.” Then he suddenly looked up at Jon. “I saw you, too.”

Jon froze as he stared at his brother, hunched over to take a bite of potato with an onion mashed to the end of the fork, and Arya noticed that Sansa had gone still, too, her eyes on her food.

“Where did you see me?”

“At the old windmill tower. Near the Queenscrown. You were there with the wildlings.”

Jon sucked in a sharp breath. “When did you see that?” he demanded. “ _What_ did you see?”

“They wanted you to kill the old man,” Bran said calmly. “To prove you weren’t a crow.”

Her brother’s face shone with his shock. Arya knew what that felt like to have Bran spout her very life out loud. “And … you saw this in a vision?”

“No, I saw it as it happened. I was there, in the tower.”

It was as if a clap had sounded at the table and they all sat up straighter, Jon’s expression one of amazement with his mouth dropped open.

“You were there?” Jon asked loudly, in disbelief.

“Yes. I was in Summer and attacked them with Shaggy Dog. You saw us.”

“You were _in_ Summer?”

“You attacked them?”

“Why didn’t you call out to him?” they all asked at once, the news incredible. Arya couldn’t believe Bran had been sitting on this all of this time. He was a cheeky devil.

“The warg that was with you,” Bran continued, unflustered. “He heard us, he told Tormund Giantsbane. I saw you kill him, right before he warged into the eagle that attacked you. That’s how you got those scars.” Bran stared down at his food, unfazed by their awed faces. “Hodor was upset because of the storm. I tried to calm him down. That was the first time I warged into him.”

There was a thick silence for a second before Jon shattered it.

“You warged into _Hodor_?!”

“Yes. Jojen said no one could do that. That’s why we had to get north.”

“And who is Jojen?”

But it was Sansa who supplied the answer. “Howland Reed’s son. He traveled with his sister to find Bran,” she told Jon, her grip still around his wrist. “They took him beyond the Wall.”

Jon looked grave. “Sam told me he let all of you through at the North Fort, while he was on his way back to Castle Black. Where did you go after that?”

“We were at Craster’s Keep, like you said. With you,” Bran said softly.

Jon looked as if he could have been knocked over by a feather. This evening had provided Arya with more variety of expressions than she had ever seen on her brother. He’d always been a cool one, cracking sarcastic jokes when she knew deep down he was bothered, but he seemed changed by more than just time. Sansa had caught the measure of him, alright, and that curiosity to know just how much they’d shared with each other leaped inside her like fish in a net.

“Bran, why didn’t you come to me?” he asked now.

But their brother shrugged it off. “Jojen said you would want to take us to Castle Black. You were there charging the mutineers. Karl Tanner held us prisoner at the west end of the keep. One of your men, the one called Locke, had found us and planned to take us to Roose Bolton.”

“Locke? Was working with Bolton?” Jon’s eyes narrowed. “We found him dead. His neck had been snapped, the bone jutting clean through the skin. Would have taken a very strong man to do that.” He nodded towards Bran. “It was Hodor?”

That stunned Arya. Hodor couldn’t have hurt anyone. But Bran tipped his head as he stared blankly at them all.

“In appearance.”

Arya turned cold, her head whipping to Jon where they locked eyes together, before they both looked back at their little brother.

“ _You_ killed him?”

“Locke was sent there to kill you, you know,” Bran informed Jon, emotionless as ever. “But we had to find the cave in order to find him. We freed Summer and Ghost and went on our way. I’m sorry, Jon.”

Jon was confused. “Cave? What cave? Where was Ghost being held?” At the mention of his name, the direwolf poked up his head to look back at them all as if to confirm the legitimacy of Bran’s story.

“They had him in a cage, and then trapped Summer when I went to go find the baby.”

“A baby?” Arya frowned. What was a baby doing out in the woods?

But Jon didn’t seem to find it odd and made no mention of it.

“I wish you had let me help you, Bran. You’re right. I would have made you go to Castle Black with me and kept you safe. You had _no_ – ” Jon huffed as he attempted to steady his voice. “It was too dangerous for you out there. It is a miracle you are here with us at all. I should have been with you.”

“Jon, you couldn’t be there for every one of us,” Sansa said knowingly, her eyes softened towards him. “There’s only one of you and you had your own ordeals to go through.”

Arya flashed her eyes to her brother, wondering about his murder again. Having seen his wounds, she felt that hot spark of vengeance seethe in her against those who had harmed her family. It was a good thing Jon had executed them, or they surely would have been on her list.

“I was on my way to you at Castle Black,” she told him then, wanting to ease his distress. She reached across the table and grabbed for the hand that Sansa wasn’t clinging to. “After Father was killed.”

Jon’s face brightened just a bit, lacing their fingers. “You were?”

“One of your recruiters for the Night’s Watch had come to clean out the prisons. His name was Yoren. He found me at Baelor’s statue and took me with him.”

“I remember him. He left with Tyrion,” Jon said, breaking their hands free as he resumed his dinner. “What happened? Why didn’t you make it to me?”

She shrugged as she grabbed for her ale, noticing that Sansa still held on to him so that Jon had to eat one-handed. “Gold cloaks. They killed Yoren and took us to Harrenhal. Where we got to watch people tortured by the Mountain’s men and their heads mounted on spikes daily. I was happy to get out of there. I told you where we went to after that.”

“You didn’t tell me you were at Harrenhal,” Sansa said.

“Aye, between the lot of you, I think you covered all of Westeros,” Jon suggested. “Except maybe Dorne.” He looked towards Arya. “Did you go there, too?”

“No.”

“How did you manage to get away from the Mountain’s men then?” her brother asked in seriousness.

Arya darted eyes to Bran, to shoot him a warning, but he was back to being invested in his mutton chop. “A friend helped me,” she said mysteriously, quick to stuff some bread into her mouth to avoid having to explain further.

“I marvel more that you weren’t discovered straight away,” Sansa commented as she chased an onion on her plate. “It was not so easy for me to travel around without people knowing who I was very quickly.”

“I cut my hair and dressed like a boy,” Arya said around a mouth full.

“Oh, right, of course. Brienne told me that.”

Jon whipped his head to Sansa, looking somewhat surprised and Arya wondered what that was about as she watched them. Taking a swig of her ale, she washed down her food, letting out a frog’s croak of a belch when she was done.

“Arya!” Sansa glared at her but Jon only laughed, deep from his belly. She remembered when they used to have contests to see who could do one the longest.

“Traveling as a boy, that was smart,” he said to her with a wink. “Well, I’m happy that one of you made it to me, at least.”

He turned and gave Sansa a sweet smile, squeezing her sister’s hand in his again, but when Sansa looked back at Jon, Arya’s breath caught. A dozen emotions seemed to be overlaid across her sister’s features all at once, an oppressive array, and Arya stared at her with wide-eyed fascination, wondering when it was that Sansa had decided Jon was the most wonderful person in the entire world. She remembered how she had adored her brother as a child, and how after, the memory of his face had pulled her through many bitter trials. To see such a testimony on her sister’s countenance, however – it was beyond Arya’s comprehension. The look was more than mere affection, and she felt that squirrely discomfort in her gut again as her mind ran through the reasons for it.

She glanced at Bran to see if he was noticing any of this, but Bran was off in his own world, studying the contents of his cup like he was reading tea leaves to delineate the vagaries of the universe, and so Arya sighed, trying and failing once again to understand what had happened to her family while they had been separated. Jon and Sansa’s binding closeness remained a puzzle to her but she was determined she would have her answer sooner or later.

“What exactly is a warg, anyway?” Sansa enquired with some interest.

Jon tore his bread in half, his hands finally free, as he turned to her with a grin blooming in his face. “What? You don’t know what a warg is?”

“Am I supposed to?”

“It means Bran is a skinchanger,” Arya answered, glancing at her brother. He had put his cup away and was tearing his bread into little tufts as he liked to do, decorating his plate with them at four points. “He can take over the mind of an animal.”

“I thought Bran was a greenseer.” Her sister looked to Bran as well, frowning when she took in his preoccupation.

“A greenseer is always a warg, but a warg is rarely a greenseer,” Bran said, as if he was quoting some book.

“The freefolk had a lot of wargs among them,” Jon noted.

Sansa peered at her brother with that glow in her face again, looking strangely amused. “Was your wildling a warg?” she asked, her mouth creeping up one side. Jon shook his head but gave her another grin before returning his attention to his food.

“What about the dragon queen? Is she a warg?” Arya asked, powerfully curious.

Both Jon and Sansa dropped their smiles, Jon’s eyes widening in warning as he glanced Arya’s way.

“She’s not,” he said brusquely.

“Imagine that. Warging into a dragon,” she said with some awe. How many Houses could she burn down? All those who had wronged her family. But then, she wanted to see their eyes when she slit their throats. Unless they were Meryn Trant, of course. Arya looked to Bran again, wondering if he could do it, but he had filled his plate with a cluster of bread bits to one side, like a pile of snow, and seemed much more interested in that.

“I would think riding one is enough for the gods,” Sansa added, though her voice was gentle.

As the conversation moved on to less subversive subjects, Arya continued to watch her siblings’ interactions. It disturbed her that her jealousy might have resurfaced, and she questioned just why it would upset her that Sansa had found a bond with Jon that rivaled her own with their brother. She remembered how Sansa had insisted she knew Jon better, yet had seemed to mistrust Jon’s every motive. Arya felt caught in between them, while also standing on the outside of their relationship, peering in helplessly as though through a window while Jon and Sansa carried on like they were Father and Mother. Their display of intimacy was jarring, but shouldn’t have been. Arya didn’t want to be envious of her family.

The servants came back with Sansa’s handmaidens after a while and brought in a seven-layered cake upon the cart, with jam oozing between the sodden sponge, cream drizzling down its sides, and Jon looked slyly to Sansa again as the two acknowledged that the dessert was meant for him.

“Taria, Mhaegen, you ladies have surely grown more lovely since I last saw you,” Jon declared to the girls as the buck-toothed one cut him a slice. They gushed over him, clucking like hens as two young servant girls cleared the plates away.

“Oh, your Grace, you know the Lady Sansa was beside herself when we were preparing for your return home,” Taria said, looking as if she were preparing to swoon. “She missed you so much.”

Jon looked uncomfortable for a brief second as they hovered to either side of him. “You don’t have to call me that, Taria. I am no longer a king.” The girls sneaked a sideways glance to Sansa with furrowed brows, Arya noticed as she held out a cup for more ale.

“Can we get you anything else, m’lord?” Mhaegen asked with some awkwardness.

“Do we have any wine?”

Sansa’s eyebrow rose high.

“We’ll get Stefon to pick out a nice dessert wine for you, your G –m’lord.”

After they left, the atmosphere had relaxed a bit and Arya bit into her cake with gusto.

“Fantastic,” Jon said after swallowing a bite.

“Your appetite has definitely improved,” Sansa noted pointedly.

“Yes, well, the dining has been plentiful,” he remarked. “Although they do eat some odd things in the South.”

“What about the Dothraki?” Arya asked eagerly. “Did you eat with them?”

“No, but I did have some foods that the Dothraki prepared. The queen’s handmaidens would bring me dishes to try.”

“The queen’s handmaidens? What were you doing with – ”

Just then Bran leaned over and spewed a great hurl of sick onto his plate.

“ _Oh!_ Bran!” Sansa shot up from her seat, as did Jon, his chair sliding back forcefully, and Arya jolted in panic to see her brother groan as he doubled over again, another bout of regurgitated meat and rouge-reddened cake purged from his lips.

“It’s all right,” Jon said, reaching one side of their brother to put his hand at the back of Bran’s neck, pressing him upward from his shoulder as Sansa grabbed a napkin to wipe at Bran’s chin. “There you go. Don’t worry, we’ve got you.”

“Bran, what is it? What did you see?” Arya asked, feeling a rush of fear. She stood up too, worried his visions were getting worse.

“What are you talking about? He didn’t see anything,” Sansa exclaimed, dabbing at the water in Bran’s cup and pressing it to his forehead. “He’s just been outside too long and it’s made him ill. He’s burning with fever. I’ll get Maester Wolkan.”

Bran spoke, and Arya suddenly noticed how pale of face her brother looked. “I just want to go to my room. I’d like to be excused, if that’s alright.”

“Of course,” Jon replied, his forehead creased. “Bran, of course it’s alright. I’ll take you right now.”

But Bran held up a hand to stop him. “No, I want Sansa to take me,” he said calmly while she finished wiping his face. Jon stepped back with a surprised frown and the three of them all shared a look over Bran’s head.

“All right then.”

“I’ll get Taria to fetch the maester, anyway,” Sansa said. “Bran just needs some rest; there’s been too much excitement for today.”

Once Sansa had wheeled Bran out, Arya took notice of the hurt in her brother’s eyes. She came over to slip an arm about his waist. “He didn’t mean anything by it,” she assured him. “He’s just more used to Sansa, is all.”

“Aye, it appears so.” He dropped his arm across the back of her shoulders.

“I was going to practice some in the stables. Walk me down?” she asked.

“Practice? With who? The hour grows late.”

But Arya shrugged. “With myself. I have a new weapon I’m working on.”

Jon narrowed his eyes at first but then nodded. “Why not? Let me go get my gloves from my chambers and we’ll take a stroll. You can leave me at the crypts. I’d like to visit Father.”

* * *

“So what is this new weapon you’ve crafted,” Jon asked as they made their way down the corridor to his chambers.

“Just a staff with some changes I made to it. Gendry is adding some dragonglass at the end of it so I can use it as a spear.”

Jon peered down at her. “That sounds pretty serious.”

She shrugged. “I had a sparring partner for a while. I got pretty good at it.”

“You’ll have to show me how you’re planning on using it, then, once it’s finished.”

“I will,” she said, her smile full of affection. Other than her father, Jon was the next person she would want to speak with of her hard-earned skill. She realized with a start that she wanted him to be proud of her, her heart seizing at the thought, and yet there were things she had done in which she was unsure how Jon would react. Sansa’s warning came back to her, but it didn’t feel right. Jon was her brother. She didn’t want to hide who she had become from him.

They stepped inside of his chambers and Jon walked toward his desk to retrieve his gloves. She glanced about his room again, noticing that the tub had been removed. Her eyes flicked to his bed, where she saw the sheets had been rumpled, a pillow dragged to the edge. Something in her compelled her to walk to its side, where she straightened the fur that lay at its foot across his bed, then sliding the pillow to where it belonged.

Jon came up next to her and put a hand to her shoulder. “You don’t need to do that.”

She looked up into his face. “You love her, don’t you?”

Her brother’s eyes widened, several unnamable emotions rippling across his face. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “Is that a problem for you?”

She shrugged again with the lift of one shoulder. “I don’t know yet. I suppose that’s up to Sansa to determine.”

Jon sighed. “Sansa doesn’t always know everything, Arya.”

“But she knows things about you,” she replied. She narrowed her eyes at him. “Lot of things, apparently.”

He sat down on his bed with a huff. “Alright. Let’s hear it. What is she telling you?”

Arya frowned at him, however, not wanting to get into their petty arguments. “She told me you were stabbed to death by your men. That it did your head in a bit.” As it would anyone. She shook her head at her brother. “She worries about you.”

“So I’ve heard,” he rejoined. “She thinks I don’t know my own mind? I’m a fool in love, one who can no longer make a competent decision. Is that it?”

“Sansa only wants to protect you,” she reminded him.

Jon chuckled, although his tone was chagrined. “Yes, because I am in so dire a need of my sisters’ protection.” He nodded to her. “You’re going to protect me, too?”

“Of course I am.” She saw Jon dart eyes to her hip where the catspaw sat in its scabbard. “Everyone needs protection. You were already killed once, Jon. You think I’m going to let it happen again?” His expression turned grave. “And let’s not forget what happened to our brother, the last king in the North. He wasn’t lucky enough to have a red witch nearby to bring him back.”

Not that she could have. She recalled her words to Beric and Thoros about Father. _Could you bring back a man without a head? Not six times, just once._

“Arya, I’ll be fine. What happened to Robb isn’t going to happen again.”

It came up in a rush, the words tumbling out of her. “Right. I made damn sure of it.”

“What do you mean?”

Arya sucked in a breath, debating with herself for a brief second, but her mind made up, she sat next to him, placing a hand on his lap.

“I saw him, you know.”

Jon took hold of her hand, and it dwarfed hers, covering it completely in his grip. “Saw who, Arya?”

“I saw what they did to him.” She looked into her brother’s face, wanting him to understand her, understand how she’d been changed. “I told you I was in the Riverlands with the Hound. He was taking me to the Twins. He thought Robb and my mother would pay him to have me back. Only when we got there, the wedding had already started. I was in the courtyard. I saw the Frey men turn on Robb’s soldiers, saw them slaughtered. And Greywind. They shot him full of arrows.”

Shock took hold of her brother’s features and he squeezed her hand tighter. “Gods, Arya. I didn’t know. I’m so sorry you had to see that. How did you get away?”

“The Hound. He knocked me out and carried me away when all the fighting broke out. When I woke up, I was on his horse. But I saw them, the Freys and their men chanting ' _the King in the North'_ , parading Robb’s body around, Greywind’s head mounted on his shoulders.”

Horror landed in Jon’s face. “Oh. Arya.” The words like stones.

But that wasn’t what she wanted him to know. “We were a day away when we came across a camp. It was some of the men who had been at the massacre. They were laughing about it, making jokes about Robb. One of them was gloating how he’d been the one to sew Greywind’s head on, how they had,” she swallowed, sick with the memory. “How they had to run the needle under his collarbone to keep it steady. I got down from the horse and approached them. Asked the one telling his story for some food. As soon as he bent down, I sunk my knife into his neck. And I kept on stabbing him until he stopped moving. Watched the blood flow out, every one of those blows for Robb.”

She saw Jon’s eyes widen, saw his throat bob as he swallowed hard. When he spoke, his voice was husky.

“What about the rest of the men?”

“The Hound took care of them,” she said.

Jon kept his eyes on hers. “Was that your first time?”

“Yes,” she said. The first with intention. “But not the last.” He nodded to her in acknowledgement and Arya put both her hands in his. “Is that alright?”

He reared back. “Is it alright that you killed a man? I don’t know that I’m the one you should be asking, Arya.”

“I killed Walder Frey. Sliced his throat, right after I told him who I was.” She looked down to where their hands were intertwined. “Do you think Father would be proud of me?” And then her fear suddenly shot forward. “Or angry?”

Jon stilled, reading her eyes for anything to draw from. “That was you? All of them?” She could only nod back, her nerves tight.

“Arya.” His voice softened, so tender towards her. “Of course Father would be proud of you, no matter what. You fight for the Starks. For our family. I can think of no higher honour.”

She smiled at him, his words such a comfort, and then Jon turned blurry for a moment, Arya shocked to discover that tears had welled up in her eyes. She wrapped herself to his chest and hugged him tight, the steel of his gorget turning her cheek cold.

But he pushed her back by the shoulders after a moment, and she saw fear in his face as he regarded her.

“Arya, I have to ask you something.” He spoke gravely again, and she saw him take a breath, swallow once more as he prepared his words. When he looked at her, his eyes had turned glassy, and she felt as if he was looking right through her. “I just want to make sure … I don’t know if,” and he turned away from her to suck in another breath. He stared down at their hands and covered hers in his own. “Did these men … did any of them _hurt_ you?”

Jon looked into her face again, and he seemed so frightened. She knew instantly what he meant and was keen to assuage him, remembering Polliver’s look in her direction. _One of our little chickens for one of yours._

“No. No one did that to me,” she confirmed.

Jon nodded to her, a steady bob of his head and his mouth a sewn seam as he absorbed her meaning. He looked upwards and she saw the tears there fighting to be released a second before Jon broke into a sob. His hand came up to cover his mouth, as his shoulders shook, and then he was grabbing for her again, holding her so tightly to him, and Arya squeezed her brother back with all of the love she held in her heart. It felt so good to have this moment with him. She had been waiting, she realized, as if all of the things which had happened to her hadn’t been made entirely real until she could share them with him.

“Thank you, Arya. For telling me,” he said roughly, wiping away the wetness on his cheek. He let out another long breath and then held her by the shoulders, made her see him. “Whatever you had to do, Arya, to come back to us, it’s all right.”

“I wanted you to know,” she admitted. “I don’t want you to worry about me when this army comes. I can take care of myself.”

He smiled, recovering from the grimness of the scene. “Aye, so you can.”

She thought of her sister. “Sansa might need some protection, though. Did she,” and her curiosity took hold again, to know more of their relationship. “Did Sansa tell you what happened to her? With Bolton?” His reaction to the news of Arya being spared such a violation certainly indicated so.

Jon was quiet for a beat. “She did,” he finally said, almost a whisper.

“You two seem close. Definitely a lot closer than when we were children. I almost don’t recognize her.”

His brow furrowed, mouth screwed up into a pout. “We’ve been through a lot together,” was all he would say. He stood up then, pulling her up with him.

“All right, enough of this gloominess. It will be midnight shortly. Take me down to the courtyard and you can drop me off to see Father while you go off to do your practice. Don’t stay up too late, though. Sansa will expect us in the Great Hall to break fast with our guests, nice and early.”

“Well, that should be entertaining,” she smirked. Jon grinned back at her.

“Aye, that’s one way of looking at it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you know what's next, y'all.
> 
> I was talking about the timeframe of Bran being outside waiting for Jaime with aflashofgreen, when we see him there in the dark as he tells Sam what he's doing, and then in the morning light when Jaime finally shows up. I was rolling with laughter at her suggestion that he keeps going out there and his family keep rolling him back in, and I definitely wanted to play with that because I found it so hysterical. But what I ended up with was no so funny anymore. I worry about that kid.
> 
> *Dany's introduction to Ghost - I know its a big fanfic favorite, and I wanted them to meet as well. Definitely felt it was only fair that we see her meet Jon's direwolf after his hello to Drogon. I hope I managed to give it a fresh spin, at least.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, lovely readers.
> 
> I am posting a bit early this week, and will likely not be back until the New Year (okay, possibly after Boxing Day :P). I hope everyone really really enjoys these next few weeks as we put an end to this most miserable year. Cherish any time you might get with family or with loved ones, even if its on Zoom. I wish you all the best for 2021.
> 
> And speaking of family, this chapter will def carry on that theme. It's shorter than I usually post, but eh, I don't know why I got it into my brain that every update has to be 10k words. I almost added another scene, but then I decided I really want this one to be all about Jon.
> 
> More dialogue from 8x01, credit to Dave Hill.
> 
> And thank you again to mimreads for the beta.

**.xxxiii**

_I’m not talking about the king in the north; I’m talking about the king of the seven bloody kingdoms!_

_You’ve never been a bastard._

_My father was the most honourable man I ever met. You’re saying he lied to me all my life?_

_You’re the true king. Aegon Targaryen, sixth of his name, protector of the realm, all of it._

_Daenerys is our queen_

_She shouldn’t be_

_That’s treason_

_You gave up your crown to save your people. Would she do the same?_

Jon gaped at Sam as multiple truths slammed into him, one at a time, like the waves crashing against the igneous boulders of Dragonstone. It was too much, too many of them, and Jon felt his legs shaking, ready to give out, as he tried to uphold the weight that wouldn’t give from his back.

“Jon? Are you alright?”

The weight won out, and Jon suddenly dropped to his knees, the bone smashing against the floor of the crypt but Jon feeling none of it.

“Jon!” Sam rushed to his side, leaning down to grab his shoulder, but Jon couldn’t feel that either. He saw Sam’s face loom bright in front of his, a pale moon that shone with worry.

“I’m sorry, that was probably a lot to take in. Bran said I should tell you tonight.”

Bran. Bran knew about this. He could see his brother in the solar again, keeping Jon at arm's length as he requested Sansa take care of him. How long had he known that Jon wasn’t their brother? His chest grew tight at the thought, that his family wasn’t his family, that his father wasn’t his father, and Jon couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t swallow, he couldn’t see, as the light went dim before his eyes, a sudden constriction in his throat as though skeletal fingers had his neck clutched in their grasp. His father’s face sprang in his mind. _You may not have my name, but you have my blood._

He had a mother. A mother who had wanted him. Who had died for him.

He was born to a Targaryen. Like Dany. He was born to Dany’s brother. The tales of Rhaegar swooped into his mind, dipping in and out like leaves caught in a blustery wind, these were tales he and his brothers used to recite, these were tales of the man who had supposedly murdered Lyanna Stark, but he had loved her. Had married her. And Jon didn’t know what to do with this information.

He sat hard on the ground, his legs having gone completely numb.

“Jon, you’re starting to worry me. Come on now. Let’s get you up. We’ll work this out.”

“What is there to work out?” he asked his friend, a guttural scrape that crept out of the back of his throat.

“Well … your people need to know. She’s not owed the throne. You are.”

Jon felt a wave of nausea sweep through him. “Sam, you can’t speak like that,” he croaked, remembering Dany’s story of the masters who disobeyed her. “I told you. She is our queen. I … I swore an oath to her.”

Sam’s face brightened a bit as he turned hopeful. “Right, well, we’ll need her dragons, of course, for when the dead get here. I understand that, why you went there to bring her to the North. We have a chance now. But the thing is, once we get through the long night, someone will have to lead us to a better state of the country than what’s been going on. And that person is you, Jon.”

“I can’t, Sam.”

“Of course you can! Westeros needs a man like you. How long has it been since we had a king who knew what he was doing? Someone who is fair, someone who’ll listen to the people. It should be you. Otherwise … otherwise, my brother died for nothing. He stood by my father, for nothing. You said it yourself, Jon, this war needs to end. You can bring peace to the land.”

“Sam, stop it!” he shouted. “If she heard you …” but he couldn’t finish, his body cold all the way through as he stared at the line of statues that made their way down the rest of the hall: the Stark lords and kings who would stand here, for time immemorial. Would his body lie in these tombs once he was gone? He’d been a king for the North for all of five minutes, but a king nonetheless. Or would it end up elsewhere? He’d never felt he belonged in the crypts and now he understood why. Jon took another gasp as he tried to breathe, the hole in his throat opening just the tiniest bit as his vision swam again. “The only thing that matters is destroying the Night King,” he whispered. “I can’t think beyond that.”

“Jon, stand up. It will be alright. Once they know, the people will rally behind you.”

“No!” He looked Sam full in the face, needing his friend to hear him once and for all. “No one can know. You can’t say anything.”

Sam’s eyes widened with his shock. “But people have a right to know who is the true heir,” he insisted. “Your family – ”

“I said no!”

Sam shut up instantly and looked into Jon’s face like a kicked dog and Jon felt the guilt land heavy on his shoulders, crushing him as he heard his shout echo against the rock. After a moment, Sam tried again.

“Is it because of what … what happened?” he said, appearing sheepish to be bringing up the mutiny. Jon couldn’t answer and so Sam rushed on. “Because I know about it. From your brother, of course, all the grisly details. I wish you’d told me. I mean, after you were – well, you know – alive. I feel terrible about it. You let me go, because I asked it of you. And you had no one there to support you. I shouldn’t have left you there.”

“Sam, I didn’t need you to hold my hand, I was the Lord Commander. I made my decision knowing that most of them would hate me for it. And I would do the same again, if I had to. But that’s not it.”

“Then why not? Is it your family?”

Family. Which family was that, Jon wondered. The family that he thought he’d been a part of all his life, even as he stood on the outside of it, herding around them like a shepherd dog trying to keep them safe? The family where he’d carried on a carnal relationship with the girl he’d grown up believing was his half-sister?

Or the family that consisted of its single survivor? The last Targaryen, the woman he loved, and sister to the man who was his real father? His aunt? That family? Did the gods hate him? Was this the Lord of Light having a most extravagant laugh at his expense?

“My family?” he gasped into the hallowed air around them, feeling stony eyes on his back as he imagined the Stark men staring at him from all around the crypt waiting for an answer, including his father. _Not_ his father. Not his father.

“Well, yes. The Starks.”

And that Sam had felt a need to clarify which one suddenly landed in Jon with all the absurdity it required. He felt a sudden loss of gravity, a floating sensation creeping over him, and Jon began to laugh, the utter ridiculousness filling his sternum like hot air and rising into his throat, and he tipped his head back as he let them free, the snickers growing in intensity as he heard their echoes bouncing back around to him, bathing him in this comedy of errors, where every action he took became a mockery of honour.

Laughter took hold of him until it shook him, until it wrung him out, and the sight of poor Sam’s face growing ever more alarmed only made the entire debacle more hilarious. Any relief he might have had at the discovery that he’d not been fucking his sister, only his cousin, dissipated at the introduction of his newest family member, the dragon aunt. What a feat of fuckery he’d managed. Who was next? Arya? What the fuck was he? What arbiter of disease had he been remade into whereupon he continued to infect the women he loved and stigmatize them? Perhaps it was a good thing his mother was dead, for surely he would have found a way to fuck her, too. His laughter ripped out of him, leaving gaping holes in his chest, the sound of air sucking through them filling his head. _For the Starks_ , he heard Ser Alliser sneer into his ear and the blades stuck him, gore him deep, and his blood flowed, as it did now, leaving him as nothing.

“Jon. You’re beginning to scare me. What’s going on?”

He was not Ned Stark’s son. And the sobering fact of his life hit him with astonishing power, shutting him up. He was not Ned Stark’s son. It was like a bell clanging inside him, sounding its death knell. Grief came up sudden and swift, overwhelming him. He didn’t know who he was if he wasn’t trying to be a Stark. And what was a man who’d felt his entire world shift under his feet, where a name was suddenly meaningless? He didn’t know.

“I love her,” he said aloud, wrenching the truth out of him as the laughter died in his throat and pain settled into his body.

“Who?” Sam asked, trying still to get Jon to stand as he cuffed the top of Jon’s arm.

“Daenerys. I’m in love with her.” And he said it in a whisper, not wanting his father to hear.

Sam’s eyes widened again as he took in Jon’s confession, his mouth dropped open. “Oh,” he said after a moment. Then his eyes loomed larger as the dawning came upon him, his voice an octave higher. _“Oh.”_

His friend gulped in some air before peering into Jon’s eyes with the realization. “So you … er, that is, you both …” Sam’s eyebrows jumped up as he tried to convey his meaning with facial tics alone. He nodded towards some unknown place, his head shaking with his typical insistence that the right words would come. “So it was _consummated_ then?”

“Yes,” Jon said numbly, his being depleted of any force at all. “Many times.” As many times as he’d fucked Sansa, he imagined.

“Well,” and Sam’s face lightened up. “It’s not as bad as it sounds, really. I mean, Targaryens wed brother and sister for years, didn’t they? Surely, in relation to that union, an aunt isn’t so bad.” He smiled encouragingly as if he were giving Jon some good news, ignorant of the fact that Jon had already traveled down that path. “It’s not as if you grew up together,” he added, and Jon winced inside again.

“It doesn’t matter,” he croaked. With any luck, he’d meet his end with the Night King and this would all become a bad dream in somebody else’s story.

But the smile on Sam’s face drew downward. “Obviously, she’s very beautiful.” He looked shyly at Jon. “And I’m sure she feels the same way about you. How could she not? But … why her?”

“Why do I love her?”

“She didn’t have to kill my brother,” Sam said, that anger returned. “She said he chose to stand with my father, but she gave him no choice at all.”

He felt Sam’s grief and struggled with what to say. How could he define Daenerys to anyone? Jon saw her again in his mind, reaching down to him, ready to lift him up by her sheer force of will. He had been a man dying and she had returned him to life. And for the briefest moment, he’d had the illusion that it might have been a good life. But there was a dark dichotomy at work. Jon didn’t know how to consign that woman to the same one who walled up a girl to die in the dark, who crucified and burned men by the hundreds. Daenerys was a strong woman, the very thing which drew him to her. But was there a possibility of being _too_ strong? Would that ever be said of a man? She had given him so much, he couldn’t doubt her. Wouldn’t be disloyal.

“She saved me,” he said simply.

Sam flinched at the truth, dropped his head to stare at his hands. “Well, then, I’m glad the end of the world is working out for you both.” Jon sucked in a breath to hear his words quoted back at him with such bitterness.

“Daenerys has had to make hard choices, Sam. I’m sorry for your brother, I truly am. But it’s war. And we need her if we hope to get through this next one.”

Sam seemed to accept his answer with the twitch of his mouth, but eyed him in curiosity. “What are you going to do? With this … this development?”

Jon sighed, long and deep. “I’ll have to tell her,” he decided.

“And how well do you think that’ll go over?”

Jon slid eyes to his friend. “Just give me a few days to absorb this. I’m sorry to have to ask you to keep my secrets, Sam. I know it’s unfair. But let me tell her in my own time. I just need … I need some time with this.”

“You’re my best friend, Jon. It’s your secret to tell, to whomever you choose. But you should talk to your brother. Bran saw it all. Maybe he can help?”

“I think I just need to be alone, Sam.” He held up his arm. “Help me up?”

“Oh, right, of course.” Sam got up from the ground and took hold of Jon’s arm at the elbow, dragging him up to a standing position. Jon’s legs still felt shaky, and he leaned in against Sam as he tried to find his balance, attempting to draw some strength from this new identity of his. Aegon Targaryen. How redundant, Jon thought, as he recalled the horrific stories of the last Aegon Targaryen’s end.

“I’m sorry, Sam, for not embracing this. I know you want me to tell everyone, but I hope you don’t think me a coward. Don’t hate me for it.”

Sam held on to Jon, his expression turning to surprise.

“I could never hate you, Jon.”

* * *

The cold air slapped him awake as he slunk out of the crypts alone, having already sent Sam back to Gilly and little Samwell. He’d needed more time at the foot of Ned’s likeness. Not that he knew what to say. Sam had made it plain enough – the man had aimed to keep him safe with the lie. What fault could Jon find with that? All he wanted to do was sleep. Fires flickered in their braziers to flag the way back to the Keep, and Jon had taken but a few steps toward the path, his eyes downcast, when he almost tumbled over a body blocking his way. He fell backwards, grabbing a post to keep him up.

“Bran!” His rage came up instantly, the emotions from this evening a roiling and stormy mass. His brother was sick enough already. _Cousin_ a voice said, but Jon swatted it away. “What the devil are you doing out here?! It’s well past midnight!”

“Podrick brought me outside when I asked him. I was waiting – ”

“You’re not staying out all bloody night waiting for this friend,” Jon snapped back. “Are you going to sit here until the cock crows? Till the sun rises while you turn frozen in your chair? What are you thinking?”

“I was waiting for you,” Bran finished, tonelessly.

Jon let out a gust of cold breath, a puff of white cloud before him. “Why are you here?”

“Sam told you.”

His anger evaporated as quickly as it had appeared, and Jon felt the weariness of his new reality cling to him. “Yes. He did.”

“I thought you might have questions.”

That surprised him, and Jon tried to read Bran’s face in the dark, wondering if there was any feeling there or if Jon was simply trying to will it into being, imagining some compassion in those blank eyes.

“I suppose I do.” He glanced around, seeing a few sentries standing where the fires shined their light under arches and behind columns. “But let’s talk of this elsewhere. I’m taking you back to your room, and you’re going to stay there and go to bed, you understand me?”

He moved behind Bran’s chair and gripped its edges, turning him around to head toward the Keep. It was a very fancy solution and much better than having him lugged around by a halfwit.

“Who came up with this chair?” he asked out of interest as they made their way past the Guest house.

“Maester Wolkan built it,” Bran answered, his monotone projected ahead of them into the dark, giving his brother's voice a ghostly feel as it filtered back to Jon with the wind. “I’m a bit too heavy to be carried around these days.”

“Aye, you’ve grown quite a bit. I suspect you’re as tall as Sansa, if not taller.” And Jon’s heart ached at the idea that Bran would stand taller than him if his brother could only stand. _Coussssssinnnnn_ , the wind continued to hiss, the ghosts of the dead following him from the crypts.

The wheel of Bran’s chair caught on a rock and Jon almost walked into the back of it, and he wrenched the chair sideways as he would a wagon. “Is this how you traveled with the Reed children? That was surely a lot of distance to cover on the back of Hodor.”

“No. They made me a cart so I could lay in it. And after Hodor and Jojen died, Meera had to drag me along on a sled. She went through a lot for him. I was a nuisance to her after a while.”

“Don’t say that, Bran. You’re not a nuisance.” But something in the way he’d said it played back for Jon. “Whom did she go through a lot for? Her brother?”

“For Bran.”

Jon frowned into the night. “ _You’re_ Bran,” he stated emphatically. “What do you mean by that?”

“I’m not anymore. I know Sansa and Arya want me to. To be him. It’s easier to play along.”

Jon turned even colder, ice thick in his bloodstream as he listened to his little brother, remembering the days before he’d fallen, when they’d practice in the courtyard, and he’d coach Bran on how to shoot his arrow, how Bran had looked up to him then.

“And so it should be different for me? You want me to know who you are, is that it?” They were nearing the Keep and the torches burned on either side of the arches, the flames beckoning them, and Jon saw Bran shimmying up the sides as a small shadow, grasping the beams and the ledges for footholds as he’d climbed his way to the roofs.

“You need to know the truth, Jon.”

The truth. The truth had only brought him misery, and yet he still fought for it, still clung to it. “Aye. I need to know a lot of things.”

He rolled Bran under the arches and nodded to the guards who stood inside, as they came to the foot of the stairs.

“Lucas. Jaran. I’m going to need your help for a bit,” he told them, standing to the side of his brother as he leaned down to scoop an arm under Bran’s legs. “I’ll need one of you to carry this upstairs, while I follow.”

“Yes, King Jon,” Lucas said exuberantly, one of the younger lads who’d been given a new post. “I can do it.”

“I’m not a king anymore,” Jon reminded him, giving the boy a hard look. “Be careful what you say. We have a queen now and you need to be respectful.” He didn’t want them making such mistakes around Daenerys. They were only showing him their pride in him, he knew, but Jon didn’t deserve it.

“I’m so sorry, King – m’lord,” the boy said, his horror at almost committing the same mistake again quick to spread in his face. Jon eased an arm behind Bran’s back and slid a hand under his brother’s armpit, pulling him out of the chair with a groan as Bran crossed his wrists at the back of Jon’s neck. Lucas eagerly grabbed for the chair, picking it up to start to carry it up. The boy was as long and lanky as Bran and it cut through Jon’s heart again to see him run up the steps so easily, the cumbersome chair to his side.

“Alright, hold tight,” he told his brother as he began to climb up after the guard, Jaran staying at this post as he watched them. Jon used to say the same thing when they’d been boys, and Bran would cling to Jon’s back as they ran up after a day of riding to get ready for supper. “Come on, now, go faster,” his little brother would cry joyously as Jon huffed up each flight, holding Bran’s legs to either side of him until they reached the top, where he’d let Bran steer him through the halls.

While Bran had definitely grown to a startling height, he wasn’t much heavier than he’d been as a boy and Jon felt how thin and bony his legs were as they hung over Jon’s arm, withered away from years of being unused.

When they came to the top landing, on the floor where the family slept, Lucas set down the chair and rolled it to face Jon.

“Here you are, Lord Jon. Anythin’ else?”

“Thank you, Lucas. We’re fine, now. You can head down.” He settled Bran back in his chair, his brother’s cloak soaked through from the cold and the snow. Jon put the back of his hand to Bran’s forehead, feeling the heat coming off of him.

“Did the maester give you anything? You still burn with fever. Do me a favour, and stay in bed tomorrow, alright? You can skip the godswood for one day.”

“The dead are on their way, I need to keep track of them,” Bran said wisely, and Jon couldn’t argue with that but he made his case anyway.

“Aye, so they are, but they don’t move terribly fast. It took them years to get to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea. One day is all I’m asking for.” He started them on their way, turning into the corridor that would lead to Bran’s room.

“But the Night King has a dragon now.”

Jon clenched his jaw tightly, another failure for him to agonize over. “Did you see that, too?” he asked with some interest as he pushed him along, wondering at the extent of Bran’s power. “Did you know I’d cause it?”

“You didn’t cause it,” his brother replied quickly, and with such assurance that Jon felt a glimmer of relief. “You didn’t bring on the end of the world, Jon. But you’re needed to save it.”

“Oh, is that all?” Jon quipped dryly, feeling too much weight on his back for one night. “And you’ve seen how it will happen?”

“I don’t know.”

Jon frowned at the answer, unsure of what it meant. He didn’t know how it would happen? Or he didn’t know if he’d seen it? They arrived at Bran’s door and he left Bran in the hallway while he pushed it open. They could see the fire had been tended to, the covers of Bran’s bed still pulled back neatly for him. Jon turned to wheel his brother in, remembering the last time he’d been in here with a vivid discomfort.

It was bright in the room, the candelabra overhead aflame on every spoke and a candle spire flickering frenetically near Bran’s window on the west side of his bed. Jon tried to imagine what it had felt like for his little brother to see Theon stride in and announce he’d taken Winterfell, and a sudden sadness shot through him at the picture of it, as he recalled Theon’s obvious remorse at Dragonstone, the man a shell of the boy Jon once knew. He hadn’t always got on with him when they were young, and Jon would sometimes console himself, thinking _at least I’m Ned Stark’s son_ , and not his ward, even if he and Theon were both kept at a distance from the family. And now, he understood he’d been no different.

Jon closed the door behind him and turned to face Bran, so calm in his chair.

“So … you know you’re Lyanna’s son.”

To hear it spoken aloud from his brother felt like a shock all over again, and he swallowed thickly at the complexity of it – the harsh and blunt ache of not being who he thought he was tangled with the wonder and joy of learning that his mother was a Stark, at least, of finally knowing who she was, even through the tragedy of his birth. Jon had heard the stories of Lyanna along with his brothers and sisters – he’d known her all his life, he’d just never met her. And that filled him with some measure of comfort now, in this room. The simplest breath of her name would always bring such a deep pain to his father’s eyes. Jon felt as if he should have been able to discern the truth back then. The way his father sometimes looked at him with that same pain.

“Yes. Sam told me why Father – why Lord Stark kept me as his bastard. Why he kept her a secret from me. He was trying to protect me. From Robert Baratheon.” The image of the king when he’d visited Winterfell made him think of Dany as a baby, imagining assassins out to kill her, ready to bash her brains into a wall like young Aegon - another half-brother - all on the word of a Baratheon. Dany’s voice at their first meeting rang through him, how Robert had tried to kill her again and again, this little girl striking fear in a grown man’s heart.

“She begged him. Made him promise her while she bled to death in her bed,” Bran said, and something alive seemed to lurch in Jon’s gut: hands inside him reaching out with a childish need to hold his mother, to cry into her bosom and feel loved and wanted.

“She did?” he asked in a rough whisper.

“Promise me, Ned, she kept saying, over and over.”

Jon felt another shock. “So you saw all of it?” he sought to confirm. “You can tell me everything?” He needed to know every detail, a hunger for it inspired in him.

“If you’d like.” Bran’s flat delivery made Jon pause. He glanced to the windows, seeing the moon cut into diamonds through the glass. It was likely to be dawn approaching by the time he was done asking Bran his questions.

“All right. But let’s get you ready for bed, first. Get you warmed up before your legs freeze.”

“I don’t feel them,” Bran reminded him, but Jon didn’t care.

“Well, we’re putting you to bed anyway. Just humor me, Bran.” He came forward and bent down on his knees to take his brother’s boot in hand, unbuttoning it down the side with swift fingers so he could slide the first one off. Even with the fur lined inside of it, Bran’s feet were like ice, and Jon rubbed it between his hands, creating heat where he could. Bran didn’t seem to care but Jon worked in silence, taking off the other boot and rubbing another icy foot warm with the friction before standing up to unstrap the furs wrapped thick around Bran’s neck. When he slid it down his back, he reached under Bran’s arms.

“Hold on to my neck so I can lift you up,” he directed, leaning his chin into Bran’s shoulder as he felt his brother wrap his arms around him. “That’s it, upsa-daisy.” When he pulled him up, he reached for the small of Bran’s back to slide down his breeches, prepared to change him into his nightshirt and some knitted stockings. The woolen breeches came down his brother’s thighs and Jon suddenly realized they were soaking wet.

“Oh. Are you – did you have an accident?” He didn’t want to embarrass his brother.

But Bran seemed unbothered. “There was no one around,” he explained, and Jon thought he detected the slightest note of despondence.

“Well. It’s alright. Don’t worry, we’ll get you sorted. You should have said something, Bran,” he said tenderly. “I would have got you out of these sooner.” Jon worried about him, the way Bran was becoming divorced from his body, as if he was losing all sense of his physical self.

“I know I’m changing,” Bran said as if in answer to Jon’s thoughts. “Jojen warned me. Even the Three-Eyed Raven warned me. Sometimes, I want to stay in their bodies, to soar through the skies. It’s … so much better.”

“Whose bodies?” Jon asked with a heave, lifting Bran in his arms again to bring him over to sit on his bed.

“The ravens,” Bran noted, as Jon got up to go through the dresser, looking for the linens and nightclothes, and when he found one, he brought the porcelain basin from its nook and brought it with him to set at the foot of Bran’s bed. The ceramic bowl was inlaid with crosses, making him think of the marks on Sansa’s arms. He dropped the linen inside the water, wringing it out after he wet it, and the motion brought forth another remembrance of how he’d cleaned Sansa’s body, wiping her free of him. He sighed, not knowing what he was supposed to feel about it anymore. Did Bran know? Jon didn’t think he had the courage to ask.

“Right, I suppose that makes sense, what with you being the Three-Eyed Raven and all.”

He remembered Bran’s story of the windmill tower, how he’d warged into Summer to save Jon. How could Jon have not realized they were his brothers’ direwolves, he wondered now, amazed that it hadn’t been plain back then, seeing them so clearly now in his memory of the attack. To know that his brother was responsible for more deaths, all in service to protect him only distressed Jon further. Yet he wondered at the thrill of it, too, imagined what it would be like to run with Ghost, and not just in dreams.

“Do you like flying better or hunting as a wolf?” he asked his brother, beginning to wipe down Bran’s leg with the linen to clear off the streaks of piss.

“What do you think?” Bran cocked his head again, a faint smile there. “What was it like for you on the back of Rhaegal?”

“Flying it is, then,” Jon agreed, recalling the utter freedom of it. If it hadn’t been nightfall, he might have tried it again, even without Dany at his side. He knelt before Bran, washing his brother’s body, and decided that for all Bran’s insistence that he wasn’t himself, that he was something else, there was still his brother in there, just as Arya said.

“Sometimes, I can see inside an entire flock of them. It’s like the vantage point changes with every blink, and I can see across miles.”

“Is that how you saw me on the ice?” Jon asked. “When I fell through after Daenerys came to get us?”

“No, I saw that in a dream,” Bran said lazily. “It’s why I sent Uncle Benjen to you.”

“What?” Jon froze, his hand poised in the air with the cloth in his fist as he was about wash the other leg. He felt the shock flood him again, as it had when he’d seen his uncle pull down the muffler about his face, revealing his identity.

“I sent you Uncle Benjen. He’d been waiting to help you.”

“But how did he know? How did you get word to him?”

“How do you think he’d managed to survive out there so long? Coldhands, they called him. He was half dead, unable to pass through the Wall any longer.”

“Why couldn’t he come through the Wall?”

Bran tipped his head to the side once more, making Jon think of a raven on a stoop with the movement. “You know why. The enchantments wouldn’t let him pass, the Wall itself encased with old magic.”

“So they work then? The dead wouldn’t have been able to pass if the Night King hadn’t taken Viserion?” His guilt rose up at the news.

“No, they stopped working when I came through.”

“Bran, I don’t understand.”

“The Night King marked me. It was how he was able to get through the cave’s enchantments set up by the Children. I saw him destroy the old Three-Eyed Raven. And then I saw … everything.” He looked into Jon’s face with a sudden earnestness. “Uncle Benjen came for Bran and Meera, too. Or the dead would have devoured us as quickly as they did Summer and Hodor.”

Jon held up his brother’s emaciated leg at the knee, wiping under his thigh delicately as he contemplated the significance of Bran’s experience. “So … you can alter the future then? You made sure I was saved from the Others by sending me Benjen.” How many times had Bran saved his life? Had he sent Daenerys, too?

But Bran only stared through him. “Can I? Perhaps you would have saved yourself.”

“Is Uncle Benjen still alive?” he wondered.

“He was ready to go. A man can only hover between two worlds for a time before he needs to choose one.”

“So he died for me? Do you think he knew?”

“Knew that you were Lyanna’s son? I don’t know. But he may have guessed it. He and Lyanna were very close, after all. Like you and Sansa.”

Jon stopped breathing for a moment, looking away from Bran’s gaze as he soaked the linen back in the bowl of water. “Don’t you mean me and Arya?” he asked quietly.

“Sansa is very devoted to you. She fears for you and wants to protect you. She thinks you are the only one who truly knows her.”

Jon snapped his head up, alarm racing through him at such a proclamation. Bran’s expression gave nothing away, no suggestion that he knew what Jon and Sansa had done with each other, and Jon felt his mouth go dry, with the notion that Bran had seen it all, a sudden understanding of what Sansa must have felt every day once Bran had returned flourishing in him. Tenderness for her rushed his heart, and Jon’s body warmed at the thought, realizing that he and Sansa couldn’t hide everything they meant to each other. They had gone through too much. But he didn’t think it wise to discuss Sansa with Bran.

He stood up and went to find Bran a nightshirt. Once he brought fresh clothes back to the bed, he resumed his questions, pulling up the cowled tunic over his brother’s head.

“And what of my mother and your lord father?” he asked. “He was with her? When she died?” Ned had brought back his sister’s body, but never spoke of her, of what had happened. And now Jon knew she had died bringing him into the world.

“Yes. Right after she handed you to him. He wept over her body. I’d never seen him cry like that before.” Bran let Jon tug down his nightshirt, holding on to his neck again as Jon lifted him to drag it all the way down, Jon keeping his emotions in check as he talked. “Before Rhaegar fought Robert at the Trident, he’d sent Ser Arthur Dayne and his men to the Tower of Joy to protect her. And you. Do you remember Father’s stories of how he beat him? The greatest swordsman who ever lived?”

“Of course I remember.” He and Robb and Theon had dined on that story, enacting the fight many times. He eased his brother’s body back against the pillows, lifting both legs up onto the bed.

“He cheated,” Bran said in an approximation of disappointment, a flash of his little brother there. “He totally cheated.”

“Are you sure?” That would be surprising. But then, this entire evening was a surprise, Jon no longer sure he even knew the man he thought had been his father.

“Howland Reed stabbed him in the back of the neck. Otherwise, Father would have been dead for sure.”

“Well, he did say Howland Reed saved his life.”

“I suppose he did.”

“And my mother,” Jon asked greedily. “You saw that … she loved him? My – my father?”

“I saw their wedding.”

“You did?” Jon’s voice was barely above a whisper, a sudden reverence taking hold in him.

“They loved each other.” Jon could feel Bran studying him as Jon took one of his brother’s legs between his hands at the shin and began to rub some more warmth into it. “The way that you love Daenerys.”

“You saw that, too?”

“I saw enough.”

Jon sighed deeply, feeling suddenly exhausted. He lifted up Bran’s other leg, began to massage the cold out of the thin matchstick in his hand. “That is a lot of information for just one man to know. You can no longer hold any illusions about anyone. You see them as they are.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Is that hard for you?”

“I don’t understand the question.”

He sucked in a breath, preparing for the worst. “Do you see me, Bran? The way I truly am?”

“I see you all the time, Jon.”

“Do you? And am I that interesting? To earn so much of your attention?”

“A man gets what he earns when he earns it,” Bran said softly, and Jon recognized the words immediately, the cold running in his veins, remembering how eager he’d been, how hot with impatience, when Uncle Benjen had said it to him.

“And … do you intend to tell them? Sansa and Arya?”

“Why would I do that?”

Jon breathed out with some relief. “All right. So I can … think about this. You’ll let me tell them when I’m ready?”

“Of course I will.”

Some of the weight lifted from Jon’s shoulders at the promise, and Jon took another deep breath. He glanced to the window, the sky still dark, but frosted clouds obscuring the moon. He looked back at Bran, lying back in his bed, and he recalled with an instant clarity the day he’d left him here for the Wall. He leaned over and kissed Bran’s forehead, his skin still hot to the touch.

“I should let you get some sleep.”

“I don’t really sleep anymore,” Bran told him nonchalantly.

Jon nodded. “Aye, I don’t sleep much, either. Not since it happened.”

“She told you before, that you were a prince.”

He reared back his head, confused by Bran’s statement.

“Who did?”

“The red woman. Melisandre. She told you right in this room.”

Shock flushed through him again; he should have been getting used to the feeling by now. “You saw that?” He narrowed his eyes at Bran. “You saw everything from that night?”

“She liked … to touch you.”

“Aye. She did.” And Jon wondered just what Bran had seen, if there were impressions of their coupling left over in these chambers.

“Did you like touching her?”

Jon raised an eyebrow, getting a bit uncomfortable with the discussion but sensing Bran was only curious. “Er … I would say that I did, some of it.”

“But it’s not the same way you touch Daenerys.”

“No. It’s not the same.” The cold prickled through him, along his arms as Jon continued to rub the back of Bran’s calf, feeling some warmth come back into his brother’s flesh. “Have you seen me with Daenerys? The two of us … together?”

“Yes.” But Bran glanced down to the covers of his bed, an odd shyness coming over him. “I don’t know that I liked it. It made me feel strange.”

“I imagine it would,” Jon said with some understanding. “That can be a shocking thing to see.”

“Sometimes I saw Meera. She would be touching herself. Sometimes she would cry when she did it. Bran didn’t like seeing that much, either.”

“That would be a difficult thing, seeing a friend so vulnerable.”

“Yes.”

Jon thought of Bran’s reply to him at their reunion, how it had given Jon pause. _You’re a man now. - Almost._ There had once been a time, after he'd joined the Night's Watch, when Jon had thought he would never be with a woman at all. But he had considered himself a man, anyway. He put Bran’s leg down and brought the furs over him, tucking him in.

“You should try for some rest, anyway. Remember, you promised me you’d stay in bed tomorrow. No going outside. I’ll send Hollis to you in the morning, after Taria brings you some soup, and the two of you can play some games together, alright? Leave the dead and the Night King to me for the day.”

“Maybe I’ll tell Hollis some stories. Like Old Nan.”

“There’s an idea. You can tell him about Macumber. That ought to put him at ease.” He stood up, ready to leave Bran and go for a walk around the castle. “Get to bed now.”

Bran grabbed for his wrist to stop him. “She’s tied to you,” he said, the quiver of portent in his voice.

“Who is?” They all were, all the women in his life.

“The red woman. You’ll see her again.”

“All right.” He frowned at the warning, but leaned over and kissed Bran atop his head again. “But we’ll worry about that another day. Now get some sleep.”

He picked up the wand by the fat candle and reached up to snuff out each one on the candelabra, the room dimming with each flame extinguished. By the time he was done making his way around each one, the chambers had gone dark with only the glow from the fire to light his way to the door. He turned back once, to see his brother still sitting there, watching him.

“Thank you, Bran. For talking to me tonight.” He felt a bit better, the sensation of having been shattered into a dozen pieces taking on a dull throb. “Is it alright if I still call you Bran?”

“Yes. I suppose I don’t mind it, really. We’ll talk a bit later.” 

“Good night then, little brother.”

“Good night, Jon.”

Jon closed the door softly behind him.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings! Hope all of you who celebrate the holidays had a wonderful few weeks. 2020 is almost done, and we can stomp on its sorry-ass, soul destroying carcass in a few more days. 
> 
> A few thanks before we move on to the notes. As I mentioned before, its been a full year since I began writing this fic and there were some commenters at the beginning who really gave me major encouragement to keep going and gave me lots to think about. I wanted to take a moment to recognize them and say how much I appreciated their notes. I know a portion of them were jonsa fans and may have checked out of the story, but I wanted to acknowledge them anyway - thanks to ba_al, enchantmentbelle, Mukwaodayin, Dolphine+Achonga, LS, iwillnotyield, Wintercameandwent, BrideofFireXo, Yamz, Thesongofthewhitewolf, usuallysunny, diamondtookoflongcleeve, KeepMeSteady, doks, OSS, and of course, my rock, here since comment no. 2, Azor_Stargaryen. I can't believe I'm posting Chapter 34 of this thing.
> 
> Also much love to my girl, firesign, for her early dedication to beta this fic, as well as to mimreads and aflashofgreen who've continued the beta and given me so much great insight and artwork, thank you both for your notes on this very long Sansa-centric chapter (or as aflashofgreen called it, the one where Sansa kink shames Jon and Dany). ♥♥♥
> 
> tw: self harm through cutting

**.xxxiv**

Arya made her way down the hall with light steps, her eyes always watching for the guards. She had noticed Sansa’s blonde soldier on the battlements for sentry duty as she’d made her way to the Keep and was curious if she’d still find Sansa alone. Jon had gone missing. Ser Davos had told her he’d left the feast early and no one had seen him since. It made her suspicious.

When she came to Sansa’s door – what had once been her mother and father’s quarters – she rapped her knuckles twice before pushing the ring at the knob, testing to see the door was unlocked. It had already begun to swing wide when she heard her sister call out. “Come in.”

Sansa and her two handmaidens turned to see Arya enter.

“Oh, it’s you. Where were you tonight? I thought for sure you’d be at the feast this evening so you could chat all night with your new heroine, the dragon queen.”

“I was around. Didn’t feel like sitting down with the lords and ladies,” Arya said as she closed the door behind her and came into the room. “I was in the mess tent outside, serving rations to the new flood of refugees. We’ve got loads of people starting to pour in from the countryside.”

Mhaegen was unthreading the back of Sansa’s dress as her sister stood for them in the center of the chambers, the smaller one in front of her disconnecting the odd metal ring that was forever dangling from Sansa’s throat. Sansa looked like she had constructed her own armor with the bodice, rows of leather strips stitched together in a shield that seemed designed to deflect any suggestion whatsoever that she was not prepared to fight, the studs down the center of it reminiscent of Jon’s armor. Arya found it an interesting way to dress, considering they were hosting their new queen as an ally, but decided she liked seeing such a sign of strength on her sister.

“Well, I am happy to hear you were assisting in getting them fed. Thank you for that,” Sansa said as Mhaegen unhooked the dress at the top of its high neck and began to push it forward across her sister’s shoulders. Taria had pulled away the chain from its ring and laid it in a puddle on the vanity then went back to pull the sleeves down Sansa’s arms. Arya sat herself down on the edge of Sansa’s bed to watch them.

“I went looking for Jon. No one’s seen him since he left the feast. I checked the crypts, the stables, the forge. I even went up to the library.”

“Yes, well, he didn’t say much when he was present. Barely spoke to the queen. The evening was arranged so he could fête her and her guests and instead he left it all to me,” she explained, her displeasure pronounced. “He made excuses to leave before the dessert had even arrived. The queen did not look happy.”

Arya mulled over the reasons for it. He had been acting odd in the morning as well, and she wondered if her confession to him the night before had been the cause of it. “I asked Bran but he said he didn’t know where Jon had gone to. It was really weird, though, because I think Bran might have actually been _lying_ for Jon. Do you think that’s possible?”

She kept an eye on her sister’s body as her handmaidens had her step out of the black pool of leather and wool on the floor. Sansa was tall and svelte but shapely where men liked to look. Her smock underneath had no sleeves and showed off a deep cut of her cleavage where Arya could see more than a hint of a breast. She remembered how her mother used to spend hours brushing Sansa’s hair, telling her that she would one day marry a prince while raving about her sister’s beauty. Arya had known early on she would never be as pretty as her sister, and so she hadn’t even bothered to try. Being pretty seemed to bring girls like Sansa only grief, men wanting to own her at every turn. She remembered the conversation with her father when Sansa had defended Joffrey. _But how can you let her marry someone like that?_

“I don’t know, but Bran was about the only person Jon would speak with during the evening. He had Daenerys seated at the head of the table, and I got to sit between her and Tyrion. That was about as delightful as you can imagine,” she said with a healthy dose of sarcasm.

“Lady Sansa, do you want to change out of your smock?” Mhaegen asked as she began to unpin the thin plaits tied at the back of Sansa’s head while Taria rolled down her stockings.

“Yes, thank you. I’m feeling a bit of sweat down my back.”

The girls began to pull up the material from the ground to hoist it over Sansa’s head. “Do you want me to come back later?” Arya asked graciously, feeling like her sister would want her privacy.

“No, it’s fine. Let the girls finish and we’ll talk.” She pointed towards her blue basin. “Taria, can you get me a wet sponge. I need a wipe under my arms, too.”

They pulled the smock over Sansa’s head and then Taria began to bathe her armpit while Mhaegen unbraided her hair. At the sight of her sister’s naked body, Arya’s breath caught, her dismay growing as she took in the dark lines criss crossing her sister’s midsection and down her leg – the work of a nasty blade, and a lasting reminder of what she’d been put through. It set the horror of Sansa’s ordeal into glaring perspective for Arya, and she thought about her own wounds again in relation to her brother and sister, the three of them bearing the marks of their journeys in a violent way. But Sansa did not seem to be concerned with Arya seeing them and let the girls do their work, Taria bringing over a fresh chemise that buttoned all the way down its front for her to change into.

“Oh, just bring my robe, Taria. I’ll fuss about with that later.” Sansa stood there in her statuesque glory, looking completely at ease with her body exposed. She had full breasts under all that armor and fur and Arya wondered again at Sansa’s experience, knowing that men wanted her. Arya saw it in their faces, even the older ones. The recollection of Sansa weeping over Littlefinger came to her suddenly, that suggestion of intimacy Arya had worried about as confusing as the relationship with Jon.

The round-faced girl brought her sister a dark green silk robe and slid it up over her shoulders, switching places with Mhaegen who had come before Sansa to clasp the front of it closed.

“Lady Sansa, why don’t you sit down at your vanity and I’ll brush out your hair,” Mhaegen said as she tied it with a sash.

Arya piped up. “I’ll do it.” Sansa swung sharply in her direction. “I don’t mind.”

Sansa smiled at her before turning to her handmaidens. “Yes, you girls can go on now. My sister will help me with the rest.”

The women said their goodnights and left the room together, Sansa’s smile deepening as she looked back at Arya. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be out training with your weapons? Do you even know how to handle a brush?” she teased.

“I’ll figure it out.” She stood up and came over to their mother’s vanity as Sansa sat down in front of it.

“So you think Bran is covering for Jon?” Sansa queried now that they were alone. “That’s an odd idea. Why would he do that?”

“It was just the way he said it,” Arya said, picking the last plait apart. “You know how he gets, like, aw, sorry, you wouldn’t understand, it’s too much for you mere mortals to comprehend with such tiny brains.”

Sansa chuckled softly. “Yes. I am familiar with that response.”

Arya picked up the silver-backed hairbrush and began to work on her sister’s long tresses, running the bristles down gleaming copper like an oar cutting through sun-kissed water. “And he said something about Jon having to prepare, that he was entering a new stage, whatever that means, and I told him he was a fat lot of help.”

“Jon _was_ moody all morning. A shock, I know.”

“When I went to the forge, Gendry said he hadn’t been there all day. I even went to – well, I went by the queen’s chambers to see if he’d gone there. But nothing. It’s really weird.”

“You went to the queen’s quarters?” Sansa asked instantly. “You were expecting to find him there … doing what?”

Arya sensed her opening and took it, brushing Sansa’s hair back from the sides of her head so she could meet her sister’s gaze in the glass of her mirror. “Well, it seemed the most likely place to check.” She waited a beat. “Do you think they do it every day?”

Sansa’s eyes popped wider. “Arya! That’s – it’s none of our business.”

“So that’s a yes then?”

Her sister turned flustered as she began to move some of the jars around on the table, her eyes downcast. “I don’t really think about it at all.”

Arya knew that was a lie.

“Well, it’s pretty obvious they’re doing it. The look on Jon’s face the other night while she was talking about her dragons being born made it plain. I mean, the woman walks through fire. That’s mad.”

“I don’t know about mad, but a woman who can walk through fire, and ride dragons, doesn’t need to listen to anyone at all, does she?”

“I wouldn’t,” Arya answered truthfully as she resumed brushing. It would be amazing to have such power.

“So you’ll have to excuse me if that doesn’t exactly inspire me to trust in her. She has the power to do whatever she likes, whenever she likes. A quality which makes her dangerous.”

“Perhaps. But I think doing whatever – or whomever – she likes includes our brother.”

“Why are you so fixated on the two of them,” Sansa asked rather testily.

“I’m not, really. I was just … curious about it.” She watched Sansa in the glass as she worked the brush down the length of her sister's hair. “Do you think he’s done it before?” Her brother had taken the black after all and supposedly sworn off women. She recalled something Sansa had mentioned to Jon at their dinner. “What was that you said the other night about _his_ wildling being a warg? Who were you talking about?”

Sansa still wouldn’t look up, but had at least picked a jar, unscrewing the lid whereby she began to scoop thick butter over the back of her hand. “Jon was with the wildlings for a while, I told you. He pretended to join them so he could get information. He … he fell in love with a wildling girl.”

That surprised Arya. “Are you saying Jon broke his vows to be with her?”

Finally, Sansa met her eyes in the glass with a sigh. “Yes, Arya. They _did it_ , alright?”

“He told you that?” Knowing Jon, that was a shocking truth, indeed.

“Well, not in those words, but … he indicated it strongly.”

“And what brought about that conversation?” Arya went back to brushing the luster into Sansa’s fiery hair, the light from the candles casting a shine over flaming locks.

“We were just talking,” she said softly. “I used to chat with him in his room while he wrote up his letters. We would share stories.” Her tone turned wistful and Arya heard the ache there.

“So what happened then? Did she break his heart?”

“She did, actually. She died.”

“Oh.” Arya stopped brushing, her eyes still on Sansa’s reflection. Perhaps this was why Sansa seemed to like this one. “Do you think he ever broke his vows before that?”

Sansa straightened her back and shoulders, her body gone stiff. “No. I know he didn’t.” She rubbed her hands over each other to soften them. “Remember, he was living with his Night’s Watch brothers, before he left to join the wildlings.”

And yet, Arya sensed her sister had more to say on the matter. “But?”

Turning around in her seat, Sansa glared at her. “But what? Why are you asking about this? Jon’s not some philanderer, wooing women beyond the Wall. You know he’s not like that.”

“I didn’t suggest he was. I can tell you know something, though.”

“Oh, gods, you’re not going to play your game of faces again, are you?”

“I don’t have to. Just tell me.”

“It’s really nothing, Arya.”

But she could see that whatever it was, the information bothered Sansa in the way she continued to rub her hands over each other, even though the dollop had already been absorbed through her skin. “It’s not nothing,” Arya said. “Who was it?”

Sansa studied her for another beat before looking towards the door. When she looked back at her, Arya could see she had resolved to spill the truth.

“All right, I’ll tell you, but you can’t repeat this to Jon at all, do you understand? He wouldn’t want you to know.”

“Really?” she questioned with some doubt. This seemed serious.

Her sister closed her eyes at first, but when she opened them Arya thought she could detect a spark of regret in Sansa’s eyes.

“I told you of the red priestess who brought him back, the Lady Melisandre. She seemed to have a … I don’t know, a hold over him, constantly hovering around him.” That sounded familiar to Arya, as she thought of Littlefinger’s connection to her sister. “And they were … with each other that way.”

“You have got to be shitting me,” Arya balked, disbelieving that her brother would lay with someone like that. She remembered clearly what the red witch looked like. _I don’t like that woman,_ she’d said to Gendry and Anguy. _That’s ‘cause you’re a girl._ Men wanted to bed Melisandre, she understood that plainly enough, but most men weren’t Jon.

“I never trusted her, the entire time she traveled with us. But Jon was … he was in a bad way. He’d just seen Rickon die. It was a difficult time for him and she used that.”

Arya frowned at the scene. “So … he told you about it?” These chats must have been quite revealing.

Sansa stared at her blankly. “Yes. He did.” She shifted in her seat and turned back to the mirror, picking up a cloth to wipe at her face. “It upset him. He felt ashamed. So remember, don’t intimate to him that you know anything about it.”

The suggestion of keeping Jon’s secrets between them bothered Arya, however, and his relationship with Daenerys was suddenly called into question. If he would lay with the priestess, what did that say about the dragon queen? She went back to sit on Sansa’s bed, unsheathing her blade from its scabbard to twiddle it between her fingers. She stared at the steel, seeing Jon’s wounds vivid in her mind. “Did he tell you _everything_ about …” she took a breath as her curiosity took over again, “about the night he was murdered? What it felt like when he came back?” What did Sansa know, exactly?

Her sister went quiet. “He doesn’t like to talk about it,” she said after a moment. “But I know what it did to him. I told you, it changed him.”

And Arya began to wonder about the dragon queen’s pull on her brother. What did a woman who walked through fire mean for a man who came back from death? She remembered again what Ser Beric had told her, how he would return as less than he’d been each time. A cold chill snuck up her back as she contemplated that type of change in Jon, the darkness it would bring. But she’d spoken to him. Her brother was still a good man.

“What about you?” she asked Sansa. She heard Jon again, admitting that he knew what their sister had gone through. “Jon knows about Ramsay, what he did to you. You told him.”

Sansa froze in her seat, her back to Arya. “Yes,” she said flatly. “He knows.”

But Arya didn’t want to hear about the bad things Sansa had gone through. “At least you had Tyrion as your first,” she said, as a means to soothe her sister. “To become a woman with a man who was kind, you said.”

With a swish of silk upon the cushion’s fabric, Sansa turned around in her seat and held the back of her chair by the sides. “He didn’t. Make me a woman,” she stated emphatically. “Lord Tyrion left me alone.”

“Oh.” Arya thought about Sansa’s guard again. “So has there been anyone else … outside of what Ramsay did?” She hoped for her sister’s sake that there had been.

Sansa narrowed her eyes at her. “That’s a rather forward question, don’t you think?”

She shrugged. “I’ve never had sex. It seems like a lot of fuss over something that just complicates people’s lives.” If not outright ruined them, Arya thought to herself. She had counted it as a victory, staying a virgin, as she’d had much more important things to worry about, but watching Jon and Daenerys had her imagining that it might be something worth doing, especially with the end of civilization upon them. Still, the fact that those two were together had definitely complicated things for the North.

Her sister softened her gaze and took in Arya with what appeared to be sympathy. “I wouldn’t have expected you to, Arya, as you’ve never been married. You’re still a lord’s daughter.”

Arya remembered her father’s plans for her and shrugged at the idea again. “I’m not getting married.”

“You don’t know that.”

But she was dismissive. “I’m _not_ getting married. Ever. I’m not you.”

She saw a flash of hurt in her sister’s eyes before Sansa responded in aggravation. “So then what is it you’re asking me, Arya?”

“Have you been with anyone else? Someone who was kind to you?”

Sansa continued to stare at her, eyes widening with more than mere surprise, and Arya felt Sansa at war with herself, something tugging at her as she considered Arya’s question. Finally, she let out a long breath and closed her eyes.

“Yes,” she said quietly, almost a whisper.

“Was it alright?” Littlefinger loomed large in her mind, and Arya saw him standing with Sansa up on the walkway watching her fight with Brienne. _He was a part of me_ , Sansa had said.

At first Sansa shook her head, but then she dropped her forehead to the top of the chair, speaking in between the thin dowels down its back. “It was …” she sighed longingly. “It can be so wonderful, Arya. Freeing. Powerful. The most extraordinary connection.”

“Really?” That didn’t sound like Littlefinger.

Her sister sighed once more, sitting up straight but her gaze still on the chair’s back. “I used to think that I wouldn’t want anyone to touch me ever again after Ramsay. The things he did … I couldn’t stand the thought of sex, refused to be used like that anymore. But then … then you find someone who understands. And it’s so different. Like being two parts that were meant to be whole, so that you become something new, a better version of yourself.”

Arya felt tingles in her body, the vibrations prickling their way across her arms and back, tar thick in her throat. She wondered how many men her sister knew like that, and she swallowed with some difficulty as she studied the softness in Sansa’s face. Her sister was talking about more than sex. A picture of Jon came unbidden into her mind from their night in his room, his head bent. _We’ve been through a lot together._ And Arya felt so cold all of a sudden. She snapped herself out of it with a poke of the blade into her flesh, until it drew a bead of blood in the center of her palm.

“And you still see this person?”

It seemed that Sansa realized what she’d just said and sucked in a breath, her face in surprise. “Arya, that’s not – you don’t need to know everything.” She stood up, holding her robe closed a bit tighter under her breasts and at her throat. “But he went away, if you must know. _I_ sent him away. It didn’t last for very long. And right now, I have much more important things to be focused on. We _all_ do.”

There was an inflection in the tone, a shadow in her sister’s eye, the way she held her body stiffly. Sansa was lying to her. She stood up, sliding her dagger back into his home, and let her eye rove over Sansa.

“I suppose you’re right. The end of the world is hardly a backdrop for romantic diversions.” She slipped her arms behind her back and crossed them at the wrists. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to your evening then, unless you need me to help you with anything else. I want to keep looking for Jon.”

“No, I’m alright. Let me know if you find him.”

“I will.” She began to walk towards the door, but then stopped, turning back around to her sister. “Do you think he feels that way, too?”

“Feels what way?”

“All that you just said, about being two parts of a whole, becoming a better version of yourself – do you think that’s what Jon feels for Daenerys?”

Her sister stared back, her face dropped into its mask now, still and emotionless. “I have no idea what goes on in Jon’s head,” she said in a monotone. “I just want him to be happy.”

* * *

“Yes, come in.”

The door creaked as it swung open, so slowly that Sansa expected to see Ghost waiting at first. But she looked up to see her girl scurry quickly into her office and shut the door behind her.

“Lira, it’s quite all right for you to be in here. You don’t have to creep your way in.”

The girl came to the desk and curtsied to her before sitting down. “Of course, m’lady. I didn’t want to draw any attention to me none.” She was in a drab brown, her dress matching her hair, which was pulled back in a tail this afternoon, out of her face. A white scarf was tucked along the cleavage of her bodice.

“Well, you do report to me, if anyone was noticing you. There’s nothing unusual about it.” She put her hands on the desk, one resting over the other to mask their slight tremors. The news that Lira brought was going to be difficult to hear, and she was not sure if she was in the frame of mind to receive it. Particularly with Jon avoiding everyone the last few days, she felt her suspicions soaring, wondering what had gone on between them.

“I’ll remember that, Lady Stark.”

Sansa took a breath. “Well? How has the queen been? What are her moods like? Have you had any trouble with her?”

Lira looked surprised. “No, no trouble. Just – well, her handmaidens, maybe. They’re very … different, you could say.”

“I would imagine so, with her bringing an army of Dothraki and Unsullied with her. She surrounds herself with different types of people, it’s to be expected. It’s all right, Lira. I just need to know what they’re saying.”

Lira made a pained face. “Oh. I wouldn’t know what they were jabbering about, Lady Stark. T’all sounded like rumblin’ and snickerin’ to me. And her Grace – she talks just like ‘em, as good as she speaks like us.”

“You do understand she was born in Westeros, Lira? She spoke the Common tongue before she learned Dothraki.”

“Aye, so she was. In the South.”

Sansa sighed. This was going to be a slog. “All right, so now that we’ve established that she’s not a Northerner, why don’t you tell me how she’s taken to her quarters? Has she been … at ease? Is her manner strained? Tell me your impressions.”

“I don’t know that she was totally at ease, m’lady, but … she’s very nice. She’s sweet to me and Glennis when we bring her food or more linens, or when we’ve finished up cleaning her chambers, she always thanks us. But in the last day or two, she forgets herself here and there. I can see she’s been upset. Frustrated-like. Last night, she was pacin’ a lot.”

“Was she now?”

“Her girls have taken to starin’ at us, like we’re the strange ones. I ain’t ever seen such dark eyes on a woman. I know they make Glennis nervous. But they don’t say much, unless they’s talkin’ to each other. ‘Course, they don’t have to say anythin’ for me to know they don’t like our food much.” The girl’s brow wrinkled. “There’s the two that are always together, but the one woman that sleeps nearby to the queen, with the dark skin and the unusual hair – she’s pretty quiet and often looks sad.”

“That’s all well and good, Lira, but let’s get back to the queen.” Sansa swallowed nervously to tame the butterflies in her stomach. “Has she had any visitors?”

The girl’s eyes went wide. “Visitors?”

“Yes. Who has come to her chambers since she arrived?”

There was no change to the size of Lira’s eyes but she blinked a few times before she continued. “Well, so far, there’s been Lord Tyrion. He came to talk with her in her solar. Sometimes he’s with that bald man. Lord Varys. And Lady Mormont’s cousin, Ser Jorah, he’s come by quite often.”

“And my brother?” Sansa grew impatient. She just wanted to get it over with. “He’s come to see her in her chambers?” She knew that Jon had been there, of course. Gareth had told her as much. But Gareth hadn’t seen anything once the door had closed.

“Oh. Er, right. He did … come by. That first day. Gareth told me the king went up on her dragons with her. Can you imagine? I’d be too terrified to go near one.”

Sansa’s eyebrows slunk together. “Are you saying that was the only time? You’re sure he’s not been back since?”

“No, m’lady. It was just the once.” The girl’s nervousness jumped in the way her mouth would twitch and purse, the way her hands kept rubbing down the top of her dress, and it infected Sansa’s own anxiety to watch the display.

“And the queen … has slept in her own bed every night she’s been here?” Sansa had stayed away from Jon’s room since the bath.

“Yes, Lady Stark.”

Sansa leaned back in her chair with a sigh. “All right, then. And what of these talks with Lord Tyrion? Are they plotting anything?”

“Plotting, m’lady? Other than talking about his sister, and when Lannister forces are likely to be at our gates, I don’t think they’s preparin’ any surprises. He does like to complain a lot, her Hand – about the cold, about the wine, about the looks he gets. But … he talks about the king, too.”

“Lira, Jon isn’t our king anymore; he’s the Warden of the North. Tell me then, what did Lord Tyrion have to say about my brother?”

“Well, he’s asked her what her plans are … with _him_. Your brother. I think Lord Tyrion was tryin’ to suss out if she’d be wantin’ to marry Lord Jon. But he also talks about the people here, how us and the wildlings are all loyal to your brother, and that she has to remember that.”

“I see.” Was Tyrion really proposing to marry them? Could Sansa accept that if it happened? Jon bending the knee had been hard enough to take, but she’d understood the root of it. Would a marriage give the North equal status in the eyes of the queen? “And what does she say to that?”

“Well, she tends to argue with him, more like. She hasn’t really told him anythin’. But she talks to the dark woman about it later, who tries to soothe her with nice words. They talk about your brother quite a lot. About things … that he does. It’s strange, sometimes the queen will fix the woman’s hair while they talk, like she was the servant – ”

“And when my brother went to visit the queen,” Sansa heard herself speak over the girl, trying to keep her fingers from tapping to the wood. “Did they talk? About anything of importance?”

The girl looked to her lap. “They talked about your sister some … and about you.”

“They did?” That took her by surprise. “What did they say?”

“It was more about the dragons, Lady Stark. Her Grace didn’t think you’d be the type to get on one.”

Sansa scoffed at the assumption, taking offense. Daenerys didn’t know her. “Alright, then, after that, what else went on?” By the knots in her belly, Sansa knew this was what she’d really been waiting to confirm.

Surprise shone in the girl’s face, her fair skin blooming with a dusty pink. “Well … they was havin’ it off, m’lady.”

Sansa breathed in deeply, a whistle through her nose, and took a step into the darkness. “And … you saw it? All of it?”

Lira blushed harder, the gulp in her throat a lump that quivered. “Obviously, I found the place you wanted me to, Lady Stark. I can see and hear most everythin’ in the queen’s bedchambers from the servants’ alley.” She swallowed again, her eyes glassy. “I – I don’t know that I can explain it all, though. Parts of it – well, I don’t know what they, er, who exactly it was meant for, what they was doin’.”

Something hard seized in her gut, a closed fist that made her sit up straighter. “What are you talking about, Lira?”

The girl reached into the pocket of her dress to retrieve a folded over piece of parchment. She leaned over in her chair and held it out towards Sansa. “I wrote it down for you. I don’t – I don’t think I can say it out loud, Lady Stark.”

Sansa’s alarm heightened as she gaped at the paper, the panic crawling into her chest like locusts across a field. “You can write?” she finally said, taking the parchment out of the girl’s hand. “That’s good to know.”

With quaking hands, she flipped open the folds and gazed upon the ink scratches across the note, reviewing the event which took place in Daenerys’s bedchamber with greedy eyes. She had to know, her mind wouldn’t let it go. What did he feel for her? Was it the same with Daenerys as it had been for her and Jon?

Her eyes scanned over the first few sentences, then instantly went over them again as she attempted to comprehend what she’d just read. Sansa’s face began to burn, her stomach plummeting while a most queasy feeling washed over her, the words burning into her mind with an escalating horror.

Jon hadn’t gotten any better while he’d been gone, she realized with a vivid and visceral certainty. In fact, it appeared he had grown much, much worse, in his savage need for punishment. And what did this woman think she was doing, indulging his sickness, in helping him beat himself upon the rocks? This was not love, Sansa thought the more she read. This was sadistic. If this woman had truly loved her brother, she would not be feeding him his dark appetites, allowing him to diminish himself before her. Then again, what did she expect from the dragon queen, a Targaryen? She remembered how horrified she’d been to find Jon strangling himself with her sash, and using her to do it. But from what Lira had witnessed – and so ably illustrated with the crudest of terms – Jon had gone beyond that. He had an accomplice now.

“What is this here, what’s it say?” she asked with her heart in her throat, pointing to the word on the parchment. “A pen?”

“Pin,” Lira corrected, her cheeks reddened. “Her hair pins.”

Sansa didn’t bother to acknowledge that such tools were certainly not meant for the practice being described in the note, but swallowed back her bile as her eyes stretched in their sockets. “He _let_ her do that to him? Willingly?”

“Well, he wasn’t complainin’ none, m’lady. It seemed … it seemed as if he liked it, judging by the noises. And like they’d done it before.”

“Noises? It says here she stuffed his mouth with … what is this?”

“With her knickers, m’lady.”

She thought of all the months Jon had been away and had to put a fist to her mouth to keep the groan from snaking its way out of her. How many weeks, moons, had this been going on? _She saved my life_ , Jon had insisted. Saved him to abuse him, more like. Ramsay invaded her mind suddenly, a cold terrible freeze that crept through her veins and numbed her limbs and her fingers. _Now_ _now, Sansa,_ _I said not to move, didn’t I? I’d hate to nick it right off. My knives stay so very sharp._

She heard her answering screams ring out in her head and sat up with a violent start. “Lira! I am sure I don’t have to remind you that this information doesn’t leave this room,” she stressed to the girl. “But if it bears so, let me be plain. Not a word of this will be spoken to anyone. Do you understand me?”

The girl gaped back while fear scrolled through her eyes. “Of course, Lady Stark. Not a whisper. I’d sooner cut out me tongue than say any of that out loud.”

“Good. So we understand each other.” She took a long breath and tried to rein in her jumbled thoughts, the need to protect Jon an overriding voice. Sansa stood up from her desk and peered down at Lira. “And you say he’s not been back since that first night? You’re _absolutely_ sure of this?”

“I’ve gone to the same spot every night that I leave her with her maids. She retires to bed on her own, m’lady. And she don’t like it none, either.” The girl shrugged. “The queen had one of her guards looking for your brother last night. She wasn’t too pleased when he couldn’t find Lord Jon.”

So perhaps it had gone too far, Sansa hoped, and Jon was trying to put a stop to it. This was why he’d been avoiding everyone. He was trying to get out of the queen’s clutches. Jon had made his bargain in order to help them and was suffering the consequences, history repeating as it had with the wildlings. There were times she imagined that part of her brother relished this inclination, turning himself into a martyr. But that was unfair, she decided. Jon was a good person who put others ahead of himself, but more importantly, he had gone through an experience which made him vulnerable to dark impulses. And Daenerys had exploited that vulnerability, bewitched a king into delivering her his crown and in so doing made him her plaything. Sansa wanted to scream at the injustice of it.

“Keep watching her, Lira, and report to me of any changes, at once.”

“Yes, Lady Stark.”

“You may take your leave,” she directed with a nod, eager to be alone with her thoughts. Her hand closed around the note, as it slowly crumpled into her fist. As soon as the girl closed the door behind her, Sansa turned and flung the balled up parchment into the fire.

_Not another night of this wretched bawling! A man can only take so much. Tell you what? Why don’t we play a game? I ask you a question and if you answer it right, you get to choose whether I fuck you or cut you. Won’t that be fun?_

Sansa wrapped her arms to either side of her, hands clutching them to keep away the chill. She stood closer to the fire and stared at the flames, stared so hard that she saw an image appear – Daenerys walking through the fire naked while her dragons landed behind her. And Jon, Jon kneeled before her, his body bowed in supplication, the skin of his back burning bright in an orange glow and his hair so black it was as if his head had disappeared.

He needed her. Jon had given her back her body, her desire, her power, and everything else that Ramsay had sought to strip away. She would not fail her brother. She would save him. This woman had managed to snare the North; she would not take down Jon as well.

A sudden detail from Lira’s recounting refreshed itself in her mind and Sansa recalled the figure of Ser Jorah where he’d sat in the Great Hall as part of the queen’s entourage. She’d only spoken to him a few times, the insipid pleasantries that go with hosting guests. But he was a Northman, along with being close to Daenerys. She decided it was time to get to know the man better. The queen surrounded herself with many advisors, in fact, most of whom were familiar to her. There was still time to pay them all a visit.

Her nerves settled, and the fire warming her, Sansa directed her thoughts toward a plan.

* * *

“Ser Jorah, good day to you. How are you this bitterly cold morning?”

The man swiveled to look behind him, bowing his head deeply the moment he saw her. “Lady Stark, thank you for asking, and the same to you. I am well, in spite of the frosty temperatures. As a Northman, winter never really leaves your blood, no matter where you go.”

Sansa walked up to him on the ramparts, leaving the shelter of the keep. “I was hoping to catch you on the way to Jon’s meet. Would you be so kind as to escort me there?”

“It would be my honour, my lady.” He held out his arm to her. “And I would enjoy the company.”

She slipped an arm in his, clasping both of her gloved hands together, and they made their way across the open allure on the path to the Library Tower. Jon had not sat with her and her siblings to break their fast this morning and she was determined not to arrive on her own.

“I have not forgotten that you’re from the North, Ser Jorah. Your cousin, Lady Mormont, has certainly left an impression on us all. My brother and I met with her at Bear Island before we took back Winterfell. It was a stunning place. Do you ever miss it?”

Ser Jorah looked surprised by the question. He was an older man, as old as Lord Royce perhaps, but Sansa could see he was still handsome and probably had been all his life. She had watched him enough to know he did not leave the queen’s side very often, and she considered their relationship once more.

“I hadn’t ever expected to see it again, and I think I’d made peace with that a long time ago. I don’t know that missing it would be an apt way to describe how I feel about my home. Once my father left for the Night’s Watch, leaving me lord of our House, it stopped feeling that way. My wife was never partial to Bear Island. Perhaps I began to resent it when I couldn’t change her mind. My life became very different even before we left.”

“I can certainly appreciate that,” she told him kindly, knowing the role her father had played in Ser Jorah’s exile. “After my father took me and my sister to King’s Landing, our lives changed dramatically as well. There was a time when I thought I would never see Winterfell again. But here we are.”

“Here we are,” he said with a smile.

“My little brother said you’d served with the Golden Company at one time. That you eventually ended up with the Dothraki. What brought you to Queen Daenerys?” She avoided talking of his troubles.

He seemed to arrive at an answer with much gravity. “I might say that after my wife left me for another man I wandered for a time, serving as a sellsword where I could. But the truth of it is that I came to be in Daenerys’s service because I was working for Lord Varys, in an attempt to get a pardon from King Robert. I learned very quickly, however, that the queen was a natural leader, with a kind heart, and that she belonged in Westeros, where her father had ruled. I stopped supplying Varys with information and pledged myself to her.”

Sansa found his willingness to be honest, no matter how unfavorably it portrayed him, to be a hopeful sign.

“And what was the queen’s response once she’d discovered your earlier betrayal?”

He took a deep sigh. “Forgiveness,” he said, eyeing Sansa with a solemn understanding.

“And yet you went away. Jon said you had returned to her while he was still on Dragonstone. He seemed to think you’d been ill.” They were across the walkway and at the landing of the armory, where she turned them towards the Guest house, taking the few steps down with him to cross the catwalk along the building.

“Aye, I had to journey to Oldtown to find a cure for the affliction. One of the Night’s Watch brothers was studying to be a maester there and he managed to cure me when no one else would. A friend of the Warden’s, I hear. Samwell Tarly.”

“How curious that you should find each other then,” she commented. She had seen Tarly with Jon the day before, and they’d been huddled close together as the plump man spoke to her brother in low whispers, his head almost upon Jon’s shoulder. “But a blessing, for sure.”

“I was very fortunate.”

“And so,” Sansa’s thoughts spun quickly. “You’ve been serving Daenerys Stormborn since before she became a queen, as far back as when Robert Baratheon was still alive. At this point, I imagine you know her quite well. She had her brother with her at the time, isn’t that true?”

“Yes,” and he frowned.

“And do you think that Viserys would have belonged on the throne as well, had he lived?” No one knew how he had died, of course.

“Viserys was not a good man. He showed too many signs of a cruel nature in the time I knew him, much like his father, the Mad King. He would have been a disaster for Westeros.” His breath hitched then, and he looked up to meet Sansa’s eyes. “And Daenerys was a queen when she married Khal Drogo. She was a queen to the Dothraki people. Each time she’s gone to a new place, she’s gained more followers, her queenship growing. She conquered the slave cities in Essos and became their ruler because it is who she is, at her core. The former slaves called her their mother.”

“For a woman with no actual human children, it seems she is a mother to many. But I suppose one can’t help note that it also brought her riches and power, taking Meereen and establishing her governance there. How did the nobles of the city take to her?”

They had arrived at the last covered bridge, the entrance to the library tower on the other side of it, but Ser Jorah stopped his tracks to take another look at her.

“They accepted her rule and recognized her as their queen, my lady.”

“I see. So that was that. And then she decided she would give that up, the love of the people, and head for Westeros to do battle with Cersei? Was Meereen not enough, do you think?”

“It is her claim, her birthright. You and I both know that Cersei has no right to that throne, and furthermore, the people suffer under her.”

“Yes, I have no love for Cersei. She would take my brother’s head, if she could. She would take mine own. I am curious, however, to hear Daenerys’s plans for her reign if we manage to beat the dead. As the North falls under her … protection, I would be most interested. As you know, Ser Jorah, we have no slaves here in Westeros, so there are no slave masters for her to conquer. That will surely make things a bit different for her, to win the people’s hearts.” They came up to the door to lead inside. “But it sounds like you have every faith in her that she will succeed.”

“I do, my lady. She will be a good queen.”

Sansa smiled sweetly, hearing the same words that had come from her brother’s mouth. “Thank you, Ser Jorah, for the conversation.” She nodded to the door where Jon waited for them all. “Shall we begin?”

* * *

“My lord, do you think the Umbers will make it to Last Hearth in time?” Hollis asked him, as he worked to unfasten the buckles of Jon’s gorget.

The thought made Jon’s belly twist with all the rest of his worries mired there. “I think we have to have faith that they will,” he replied. They couldn’t lift every one of young Ned Umber’s people onto the backs of Drogon and Rhaegal, after all. “We sent them off with more horses and wagons, on swift riders. The dead don’t move at half the speed and the Night King needs his army.”

“Lord Brandon said that he’s met the Night King before. He described him to me. It was the scariest thing I’d ever heard. He said he has razor sharp teeth, like a shark! Have you seen him, too, my lord?” the boy asked nervously.

Jon closed his eyes and cursed his decision to allow Hollis to spend time with Bran. There was no care in the things that the Three-Eyed Raven revealed, and he realized that sending a thirteen year old boy to entertain him had not been the smartest move.

“Aye, I’ve seen him, Hollis, and what Bran says is true, but don’t you worry. You’ll be down in the crypts with the others when the time comes. I’ve arranged it.”

“But shouldn’t I fight, too, Lord Jon? I mean, I’m a man now, and I’ve sworn to protect you.”

“Hollis – ”

“But I’ve been practicing with the other children! Even your sister helped me. She said I had a natural ability for sword fightin’.”

“Did she, now?” Olly popped into Jon’s mind, and he remembered the way his Night’s Watch brothers had teased him, before the scene quickly cut to the boy standing with his bow and arrow, nodding to Jon after he’d shot Ygritte through the chest. “Should I put you in with the left flank, then?” he said dryly. “Lady Brienne will be leading them.”

Hollis’s eyes went wide. “She will? I’m – I don’t – well, maybe, I can help out with the rear guard?”

“Hmm, let’s see,” he said, pretending to consider it. “Ser Donnar will be commanding the rear guard. He would be familiar with your style. Or maybe you’d prefer to fight with the Unsullied? Their captain seems like an easygoing fellow,” he teased.

“I can fight, Lord Jon.”

“Aye, I know that, Hollis. But I need you, and I don’t want you at risk.”

The boy took off Jon’s gorget and laid the steel panels on the foot chest nearby. He looked dejected at the news and Jon’s heart squeezed tight, so worried for them all.

“I suppose we can always use another man on lookout,” he said in consolation. “How good of an archer are you?”

The boy’s mouth turned up. “I’m a better archer than I am a swordsman.”

“Well, we need more men atop the First Keep, near the Broken Tower. Sansa tells me you’re a pretty good climber. That you go up there sometimes to watch the dragons. Think you could learn some signals?”

“Yes, Lord Jon! I can do it, I promise!”

Jon sighed as he sat on his bed. “All right then. I’ll put you on their unit. I’ll send you to Ser Davos, later, and he’ll work with you.”

“Thank you, Lord Jon. You won’t regret it.” He finished the side buckle at Jon’s waist and began to lift the armor from the shoulders. “I saw you last night.”

Jon stiffened at first, Hollis dragging the brigandine over his head. “Saw me where?”

“On one of the queen’s dragons. The green one. You were flyin’ it alone,” Hollis said with some awe as he put Jon’s armor away.

“Yes, well, I need to know what I’m doing when the Army of the Dead gets here, don’t I?”

“You flew right over me. I tried waving to you,” the boy added excitedly.

“I think I was a bit busy hanging on for dear life.”

But Jon’s thoughts while on the back of Rhaegal had been focused on the same matters he’d been consumed with for the last several days, ever since Sam had given him the truth. He had hoped that riding through the night would help to clear his head, would get his attention on the countryside and the planning of their survival. Yet the confusion and despair which had churned through him hadn’t abated any by the time he’d landed, as Daenerys had been waiting for him.

He’d been as shocked to see her there as she clearly was at his evening flight. It had been a foolhardy thing to attempt getting back on Rhaegal without her there, and in the back of Jon’s mind he had suspected he’d been tempting fate, hoping that perhaps the dragon would simply put him out of his misery with a sudden blast of fire. Strangely, Rhaegal had put up no resistance at all, and had bent his wing to him this time to allow Jon to climb on a bit more gracefully. He’d had no real understanding of the commands required but once he thought about where he wanted to go, Rhaegal seemed to know instinctively where to fly. Drogon had followed them for a while but then had just as swiftly veered away and disappeared.

When he’d come back to the field where he’d left his horse, he’d seen Dany standing below before Rhaegal had begun his descent, her gleaming white hair shining silver in the moonlight. As he’d climbed down, the hurt in her face had been clearly etched, and Jon felt shame sweep over him so strongly he almost fell. What could he say to her? She’d merely sent away her guard and then calmly watched him walk over to her.

“You went up alone?” Her pain had cut through him.

“I was … practicing. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Disturb me? I haven’t seen you all day.”

And then there on the moors, under the moon, Dany had grabbed hold of his wrist and Jon had felt his body go cold, had heard the mutters of his men, _for the watch_ , the blades slicing deep into his belly, the shock of it, again and again, felt his body on the ground as the blood flowed from him, ice in his veins, and then Sansa was riding him, her moans ringing in his head, the peals growing louder, and he was flipping her over, pummeling into her, and he felt the disgust roll through him, the world tilting and Jon had pulled away from her, his hand on his mouth to keep from spewing the sickness that had enveloped him while his limbs shook.

“Jon, what is it? What’s wrong?” She’d stepped closer to hold him and Jon had visibly flinched, moving away from her again. He’d been horrified at his reaction, and the expression there on Dany’s face had only made the scene all the more unbearable.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened. I think I am not used to the altitude. Forgive me, Your Grace, I need to get back.”

He’d left her there, thundering away on his horse as if the devil was on his heels, and when he’d arrived at the stables he hadn’t even been able to wait to make it to the keep, but backed into a corner of the stall, hidden from view, and wrapped the reins of the tackle hanging there around his throat. Not wanting to make a sound, he’d pulled the dirk from his hip and dragged down his breeches far enough that he could slice the blade inside of his thigh. He’d tightened the reins until his vision swam and the pulse in his leg grew fiercer and louder until it drowned everything else out. Jon had cut himself a second time, cross-wise, careful enough not to nick too deep lest he open an artery. Then Sansa’s moans had faded, the screams subsiding, and everything grew very quiet, so that Jon could hear his breaths slow down. His heart pumped slowly and black spots ate into his sight but Jon let go of the reins and let them loose upon his throat so that he could breathe once more.

By the time he’d made his way into his chambers, Jon had grown very calm. He’d taken care to wrap up his thigh and had dropped into a sound sleep. It wasn’t until Hollis had awakened him the next morning – his expression scrunched into concern at the amount of blood on Jon’s sheets – that Jon had any other thought come into his mind. He hadn’t given the boy much of an explanation but allowed him to clean the cuts and bandage them properly.

“Is that how you nicked yourself, my lord?” the boy asked now. “Those spines look mighty sharp.”

“Aye, I think I did. It’s hard to find a seat on its back. Their ridges are thick around their head, and you need to keep your grip on the spines to keep from falling off whenever they make a sharp turn.”

“Did you go looking for the Night King and the Dead, my lord? I suppose it would be better to hunt for them under the cover of dark.” He kneeled to the floor to take off Jon’s boots.

Jon took another long breath. He had wanted to, oh, how he’d burned for it. To end this all with just him and the Night King upon their dragons, and then the rest of the dead would fall and the North and those he loved would be safe. But if Jon failed, then he had simply doomed his people, another dragon down and no one there to guide them. It had been a difficult thing, to stick to the west and not race Rhaegal to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.

“No, it’s best not to go too far, Hollis. We don’t want to give away our only advantage, by alerting him to our possession of two dragons to meet his own.”

“My brother used to tell me stories from the _Dance of Dragons_ when I was little,” Hollis went on enthusiastically, bringing over a clean shirt for Jon after depositing his boots to the side for cleaning. “The stories said that the Targaryens were the last of the dragon riders, that no one else could tame them back then. But they didn’t know about you, Lord Jon. You’re the White Wolf, everyone says so, and if any other house could ride dragons, it would be the Starks.”

Jon felt an instant chill across his flesh at being found out, even if it was indirect, and he chuckled to mask his discomfort. “A wolf on a dragon, then? Now that would be a sight. Can you imagine Ghost atop its back?”

Hollis laughed in delight at the image Jon had created and Jon joined in, when they heard a knock at his door.

“Come in,” Jon called, expecting to see Arya waltz into the room. After the discussion of battle plans in the library that afternoon, Daenerys had made it plain she was still upset with him, questioning every assignment he had given.

But it was his other sister who had come calling, and Sansa strode in with a wry smile, her eyes lit sharply with her annoyance as she peeled off her gloves. In his avoidance of Dany, he had made equal attempts to keep out of Sansa’s way. The two of them were just too much for him to handle at the moment.

“Amazing. You’re _actually_ in your chambers. And here I thought you might be – oh, I don’t know, entertaining our guests, perhaps.”

“Sansa, what is it,” he responded with little patience, standing up from his bed. “I’m tired and should like to retire to bed soon.”

She waved a hand to the door. “You didn’t even bother to attend dinner this night. Honestly, Jon, I don’t know what’s going on with you, but the behaviour has been noticed by all.”

Jon looked to Hollis who stared at them both with wide eyes, the boy looking awkward as he stood there stiffly between them. “Hollis, it’s fine, you can go now.” He knew the boy didn’t like to be in the room with them both.

“I’ll bring your boots back later after I’ve waxed ‘em up, my lord,” Hollis said as he picked them up to tuck one under each arm. He glanced nervously up at Sansa. “Will you be needin’ anythin’, my lady?”

“Need _ing_ any _thing_ , Hollis. Remember not to drop your g’s. I’m fine, but tell Billy when you go down that Ser Jorah would like his horse saddled first thing in the morning. You may go.”

“Yes, Lady Sansa.” He bowed to her and hurried out.

As soon as Hollis left through his chamber door she was ready to pounce.

“Are you going to tell me what’s been going on?” The dress she wore featured her softer pleats this time, leaving the leathered bodice one for Dany, he supposed. Jon shuddered to think what her next garment would look like.

“I don’t know what you mean, Sansa. I apologize for missing the feast but Ser Davos and I had more work to do after the queen’s notes from this afternoon.”

“Are you joking? You really think I’m going to believe that one?”

“Sansa,” he growled in his throat. “I’m in no mood for an interrogation. Say whatever it is you came here to say to me.” He crossed over to his desk, with the intent to review their new maps again, but Sansa grabbed hold of his wrist and Jon froze, his anger swelling into his chest with a frightening speed.

“I don’t like the way you’ve been disappearing. You need to talk to me. I know something happened.”

He stepped back, detaching himself from her. “What? What do you think has happened? We have a million things to worry about, to try and figure out, before the dead are here to destroy us, so where do you think I should be focusing my attention? On dinner? On pleasant conversation? Is that where I should start?”

“Don’t pretend this is all about the coming army. I know you better than that. You said to me just the other day that we needed to stop quarreling, and we have to relish every moment we have with each other before this battle begins, and then you take off. Just talk to me. Please, Jon.”

Jon was exhausted. He sighed and nodded to her. “Fine, Sansa.”

She came closer to him and then took both of his hands in hers. “Why are you avoiding us? Has something happened with Daenerys?”

He should have expected that. “Why would you think that?”

Sansa shrugged. “I’m the one who’s been handling her requests, who’s been there to notice how you don’t look at her during dinner and how it’s distressed her.”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind,” he admitted. “It hasn’t been easy, hearing what’s happened to Bran and Arya. I don’t know how to – how to accept that they’ve both had to kill people, that they’ve changed … so much. You were right, I couldn’t protect them then and I can’t protect them now. I can’t protect any of the people I love. And I don’t know what to do about it.” He felt his throat closing up again, his breath trapped, and his leg throbbed, the bandage so tight, as he felt the panic rising up from his gut. “Did you know? That Arya was responsible for the Freys?”

Her eyes widened with an intake of breath. “Bugger. She wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

“I guess that answers that then. I mean, of course you did.” He pulled his hands out of Sansa’s grasp and dropped them on his hips. “Are you both handling me now?”

“Well, was I right? You’re upset. I knew you would take it this way.”

“I just want my family to be safe, Sansa.”

“As do I. Which includes you, Jon, in case you’d forgotten. You’re my family and I want you to be alright, to be alive and to be with us.” She came near enough to slip her arms around his waist and Jon needed air, needed to not have her so close to him in this room, the memories of what he’d done with her suddenly appearing as pictures on the wall like before.

“Sansa, let me sit down and –” There was a soft rap on the door. They both looked towards it and then another came. And in the next beat, another single knock. Jon frowned at the strangeness of it. “Is that Arya?” He started to move for the door to let her in and Sansa grabbed him at the waist again, halting him.

“Wait.”

He glanced at her, then back at the door, pushing her a step backward as he made his way over. “Yes?” he called just before opening it.

Gareth stood there looking off down the corridor. When he turned to see Jon, his eyes widened to saucers, a surge of fear there. “Oh. You Grace. I mean, so sorry. M’ilord. I was –”

“What is it, Gareth, spit it out.” The lad stood there with his mouth agape. “Did someone need me?”

“No,” the soldier said quickly, before his mouth dropped open again. “But … Ser Davos. He asked to meet with you. In the morning. When you break your fast.” Then Jon saw Gareth glance into the room, straight at Sansa, before snapping his terrified eyes back to Jon. “He didn’t say what it was in regards to, milord.”

“All right. That’s fine. I guess I’ll see him then.” Gareth still stood there, looking for all the world like a new recruit assigned his first post, and Jon narrowed his eyes at the boy, finding his behaviour unusual. “Was that all?”

“Yes. Yes, it was. Unless you’ll be needing anything else, milord.”

“I’m good for the night, Gareth. You can tell Ser Davos I’ll be in the Great Hall in the morning.”

“Of course, milord. At once.”

The lad left in hurried steps, bolting his way down the hall before Jon closed the door and turned back to Sansa. “That was odd,” he said to her. “What do you think that was about?”

“Why should it be odd for your guard to bring you a message?”

But Jon took a harder look at his sister, instantly noticing the way she tangled her chain hanging at her chest around her fingers. He sauntered over to where she sat leaning against his desk, casting a thumb over his shoulder to the door behind him.

“What was odd is that I got the distinct impression he was here for you.”

A blush turned her cheeks a soft pink, her eyes shining. “Why would the guard come to your bedchamber looking for me? Gareth knows the castle; he knows where our rooms are.”

“I don’t know, Sansa. You tell me.” Her demeanor was bizarrely suspicious.

Sansa threw up a hand in the door’s direction. “You heard him. He said he was delivering a message from Ser Davos.”

“Ser Davos sees me every morning. He doesn’t need to send me a message that he plans to see me for yet another morning.”

She scoffed. “What, now I’m supposed to know what all the guards are thinking?”

“And what was with that knock? Who knocks like that?” It had sounded like a signal. Jon turned around and stared at the door again, his thoughts seizing on a series of suggestions, most of them disturbing. When he looked back at Sansa, he watched her carefully. “ _Was_ Gareth here to see you?”

Her eyes widened like a doll’s but she only shrugged her shoulders again.

“Sansa? Answer me.”

“I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say, Jon.”

“It’s a simple question.” Anger was building in him again, his stomach twisting and the bile rising. “Either he was or he wasn’t.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps. He’s been helping me with something. Maybe he was looking for me and was thrown when he saw you.”

Jon furrowed his brow deeply, something white hot running through him. “Oh, he was _thrown_ , was he? To find me in my own chambers? Yes, I can see how that would be a shock. What – what’s this he’s been helping you with? _Exactly?”_ He did not like where any of this was going, the lad’s face now glaring in his mind with that moony gaze on Sansa.

“It’s nothing, Jon. I just needed some … information.”

“What kind of information?”

She scoffed again. “I just wanted to know what Lord Varys was up to, who he’d been talking with. You don’t know the Master of Whisperers like I do. He will find people to talk to him. He’s craftier than Littlefinger ever was. His little birds are everywhere.”

Jon now stood in front of her, where she still had her fingers looped through her chain. “You know, I have had a conversation or two with the man during our long journey overseas, Sansa, you do understand that, right?” He clamped his jaw as he saw the boy’s expression in his mind again. “And I’m trying to work out how Gareth, of all people, is the one you choose to track a mastermind? Not exactly the brightest flame on the wick, is he?”

“He’s loyal to me,” she said, standing to her full height. “You weren’t here, Jon. I needed some help and he helped me.”

And then he saw it, saw the spark of defiance in Sansa’s eyes and he knew the truth of it. He felt himself knocked back by the blow, just the image of her with that foolish boy.

“You’re joking, right? Please tell me this is a joke.”

“Why would I be joking?”

“The _guard_ , Sansa? _Really_?” His temper was alight and he couldn’t tamp it down, couldn’t control it, as it raced through him like wildfire.

Her eyes narrowed at him, mouth hardening with her own fury. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. You were gone. And you come back with _her?_ You’re the last person to question who I decide to spend my time with.”

Jon saw red for a second, as though blood poured from his eyes, but he reined himself in, aware that he couldn’t start shouting in here. He dropped his voice to a harsh whisper. “The difference is that she is a queen and he’s a guard, Sansa. Am I supposed to stand by while my bloody _guard_ fucks my sister?” _Cousin,_ a voice said, but he flicked it away and kept his eyes locked on her. “Surely you could do better than that? Was Lord Royce not interested?”

In a flash, Sansa’s hand smacked him across his face, and Jon reveled in it, feeling the heat of it scour him, and then he saw her from before, the way she’d dropped her nightgown for him every night, the way she’d put his hand between her legs, and Jon had to calm the fuck down. This could not be happening.

“How dare you,” she said, her tone as icy as the frozen lake he’d almost died on. “I’m not looking to carry on an affair with anyone here. What do you take me for? Especially now. Are you mad? The entire _point_ is that he’s no one anyone pays any attention to. Except you, I suppose.” Then Sansa stepped closer, her nose almost touching his, her breath on his lips. “And he’s not _fucking_ me, so you can bloody well get over your jealousy,” she hissed.

“I’m not jealous. I’m _concerned_. I am a concerned _brother_ , Sansa. As you so notably pointed out, Varys will be digging for information while we host him here. I would be loath to see my sister’s reputation tarnished by such craven rumors.”

“Oh-ho,” she gloated, resentment in her face. “That is _rich_ , coming from you, Jon.”

And Jon reared back, feeling like she’d slapped him again. He didn’t want to be this person, didn’t have time for this. He wanted to hold on to the Starks with every bit of strength that he could muster, not push them away. Jon took a breath deep into his lungs and expelled it slowly as he stood akimbo. When he could speak again, his voice had returned to normal, his temper soundly deflated.

“What do you mean then? If you’re not … doing anything, what do you mean that he’s helping you?”

Sansa eyed him curiously. “Let us simply say that I grew accustomed to my brother’s expertise of a certain practice. I’ve developed a penchant for the way he made me feel and seek only to replicate the feeling a few times out of my week, a reprieve from the insanity of our current situation, if it please, my lord.”

Turning away, Jon's jaw clenched again, his sight on his bed as the images he’d envisioned still burned in his mind, although much more specific this time. He had done this to her. This was his doing.

“I’m sorry, Sansa, for being cross,” he apologized with a sudden melancholy flooding him. He was so tired. “You don’t deserve that. I had no right, to say such things to you. I – I’ve had a difficult couple of days. I know that’s no excuse, but … it’s all I’ve got. Forgive me. ”

She frowned. “Oh. Well, I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I’ll … I will be there at the feast tomorrow. Thank you, for taking care of Daenerys. I hope that you can get to know her, before whatever happens happens with this army.”

“Perhaps I should invite her for tea and lemon cakes,” Sansa suggested wryly, with an arch to her eyebrow.

But Jon brightened at the thought. The two of them had overcome so much and he felt they could truly bond in friendship if Sansa would only try.

“I would like that.”

“I was being sarcastic, Jon.” She grinned at him. “We can't get any lemons here. Maybe if we all survive I'll consider it. Should I invite you, too?”

Jon groaned. “Gods, no. Please don’t.

Sansa hugged him then, and she held him so tight that Jon eventually wrapped his arms loosely at her back. He felt her kiss upon his cheek and then she was holding his face, making him meet her warm gaze.

“I love you, brother. You know I would do anything for you. Please come and talk to me when something is upsetting you, alright?”

And for a blistering moment, Jon had wanted to tell her, had wanted to divulge the truth about him, about the two of them, really. But then he realized he needed that protection. Needed to have her believe they were brother and sister still, so he could get them all through this.

“I’ll do my best, Sansa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were two r/freefolk glorious memes that would crack me up without fail in the two year wait for Season 8. I did my best to include them both in this story, lol. One, Jon as the AssEater who was Promised, and the amazing artwork that followed of Jon eating some Dany ass that alas, the original artist scrubbed from the internet, BUT you can see a glimpse of it [here](https://i.imgur.com/XEw35tD.gifv). The second was Ghost riding Drogon, but it seems that one disappeared as well so here is [Ghost riding Rhaegal](https://i.redd.it/keyqbp3zbps01.png), which is still the gift that keeps giving. 
> 
> Good times.


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All right, I said in my previous notes I had planned on having Dany's pov for this one, but I decided that I wanted an entire chapter devoted to her thoughts. But first a few things needed to happen. We'll hear from her next chapter.
> 
> Some of the dialogue used here credit to Bryan Cogman, from 8x02, A Knight Of The Seven Kingdoms.

**.xxxv**

Varys walked out onto the battlements from the tunnels of the Keep and made his way over to where Tyrion stood, the smallest Lannister watching over the throng below as the soldiers and smallfolk began another day of building in earnest. Soldiers had yet to begin the morning’s work on the place where he and Tyrion stood, but already dragonglass shards had been plastered to the merlons with thick tar, and Varys shuddered to imagine how these small flecks of obsidian were meant to protect them from death itself. There was no joy in this place, all manner of whimsy stripped from the people’s faces, and Varys recalled Ned Stark’s somber visage then, contemplating whether this was simply the norm for the North.

“Another early morning, my friend? I’m beginning to think you are of the mind that we will not be victorious here.”

Tyrion looked up as Varys came to stand beside him, and the man’s expression was grim. “Yes, well, I will feel a bit better once my brother and Lannister forces are at the gates. By my calculations, they should be arriving any day now.”

“You stand up here looking like one of the gargoyles that decorate the Keep, and just as dour. Not unlike young Brandon Stark, although his emotions are rather inscrutable. He spends his time in the courtyard sitting and watching, as though he were waiting for something. Have you noticed it?”

“I have. The boy is a strange one, but considering his experiences, I daresay it’s not much of a surprise. How he came to be here is a tale I’d like to hear. But right now," he sighed, "I would settle for a better wine.”

Varys smirked. “Perhaps you might find better with your invite from the Lady of Winterfell. Our dear Sansa Stark has been making the rounds. I know she plans to have you join her for some midday refreshment this afternoon.”

“Yes, of course you would have heard about it. I don’t know what to make of the invitation. After our last private conversation, she had made it clear she was quite disappointed in me. If only I’d known she looked up to me at all. That would have been useful, once upon a time.”

“Oh, to be sure, having your child bride consider you dashing would have made things so much easier.”

Tyrion gave him a suffering look. “Please, I don’t need to be reminded of that night. Sansa is no longer a child and she’s obviously quite at home ruling. As she is speaking her mind. Her misgivings will not be silenced, even by our queen, which has become apparent to all. I noticed some tension between her and her brother. Our Warden of the North, that is.”

“Our Warden of the North had been providing tension on all fronts. Daenerys seemed quite brittle the other night, with his absence at dinner.”

Tyrion gave him another look. “Yes. That is another complication. I don’t know what to make of that, either. The Keep rings loudly with the quiet of the halls. I’d almost grown used to the sounds of their lovemaking, and now, nothing.”

“I imagine he wants to protect her virtue, with so many present here. The whiff of impropriety, a suggestion that he and the queen have an intimate relationship beyond an alliance, would put the matter of him bending the knee into question, no doubt. It is noble - that he should put some distance between them - but I don’t think he’s explained that to her yet.”

Tyrion turned to walk to the other side and Varys followed, tucking his hands into his coat to warm himself. It was bloody cold in this place, and he found leaving the warmth of his room most difficult in the mornings. They walked down the stretch of the west wing of the castle and took a look at the fields of snow that stretched for miles, a legion of tents dotting the landscape in clean rows. Battalions of soldiers were practicing just outside the gates.

“And so … are you going to tell me?” Tyrion asked with a knowing glance at him.

“Tell you what?”

“What I should be prepared for. You’re not the only one who hears things, Varys. How did your visit with Sansa Stark go yesterday? Reminisce over old times, did you?”

“Ah, yes. It was most interesting,” he glibly told his friend, recalling the words of Lady Olenna.

_Why shouldn’t I take an interest? She’s an interesting girl._

_Is she?_

_No, not particularly._

But Sansa had proven Lady Olenna too hasty in her assessment. The young lady had been sharp as Valyrian steel as she steered the conversation during the entirety of the visit, giving Varys enough prompting to say the wrong thing. Her pointed questions about Meereen had forced Varys to tread lightly.

“She has learned from her teachers ably, both from your sister and Lord Baelish, it seems. She was very, very curious about our queen. So many questions, all delivered in the palaver of an afternoon tea, of course, while the entire time I could see her mind spinning behind those pretty blue eyes.”

“Such pretty blue eyes,” Tyrion said, sounding wistful for a moment. He cleared his throat. “But, what is she after, do you think? Surely she must know that Jon has … _committed_ himself to Daenerys most strongly. I mean, Jon would tell her, right?”

“You think Snow would tell his sister that he’s been sleeping with the queen?” Varys frowned at the notion. Then again, Tyrion had a very poor example of the relationships of brothers and sisters.

Tyrion waved his hand out across the moors. “Well, he’s got that whole honourable thing going, doesn’t he? He would be compelled to tell her. That he’s in love with Daenerys. And I’m beginning to get the distinct impression Sansa would not look favorably at the news of a wedding between her brother and the queen, as Ser Davos has suggested. She seeks to undermine Daenerys, you think?”

“Why would she do that? Sansa is a smart girl, she understands what would be looked upon as treason. I don’t know what information she was privy to, however, while Baelish used his status to whisper things into her ear. We all know that the queen had her troubles in the East. I would be keen for them to stay there. But what had Lady Sansa heard prior to putting Baelish on trial? I do not think she knows much, and she certainly didn’t get anything out of me, but she has spoken to Ser Jorah.”

“Jorah has learned his lesson twice over. He would die before saying anything ignoble against his queen.”

“True, but I only mention this because Sansa Stark took the time to seek him out, meaning she’s ticking us off, one by one. And yet, the one person I _haven’t_ seen her speaking with …” Varys trailed off, as both he and Tyrion looked above to the clouds just as a dragon sped by the castle, the rider on its back clearly visible and decidedly male. The dragon sounded its eagerness and Jon Snow swerved the beast into the wind to take a sharp left turn away from them all.

“Interesting. I had thought from the way Jon has spoken of her that they were close.”

“Perhaps they are and yet something has come between them. Who might that be, I wonder.” And Varys started to believe that Tyrion had it right, that Snow had told his sister of his feelings for Daenerys and that his step down from a crown for love was not met well. Sansa had been pleasant during their exchange, but still distant enough to make it plain she had no intention of winning him over as neither an informant nor compatriot. While not as cunning as her mentor, Sansa Stark had learned how to play the game better than her father, and she was after something.

“I feel as if Jon Snow being able to ride a dragon should mean something,” Tyrion noted. “I can’t imagine just any man would be able to climb upon the beast, unless the dragon’s mother has given express approval. Surely the Northerners are wondering the same.”

Yes, Jon Snow was becoming quite the player in this, Varys thought warily. He cut a dashing figure, indeed, to be perched on the beast, like Aegon the first leapt from the history books, scanning the countryside as he avoided their queen. A man who knew death, a war hero and a king, one chosen by the people, and one who continued to draw their loyalties. Ser Davos’s caution came back to him. _The Northmen are loyal to Jon Snow, not to her. They don't know her. The Free Folk don't know her. I've been up here a while, and I'm telling you, they're stubborn as goats. You want their loyalty, you have to earn it._ Daenerys would earn it when she delivered them from the horror of this plague of dead men and its king with her dragons. But not if Jon Snow was swooping in to save the day.

“His men love him,” he commented to Tyrion. “I’ve had many a conversation the last few days and the former king in the North has their undying admiration. And I’ve caught more than a few ‘ _your graces’_ being uttered in their respects to Jon Snow, have you noticed? The Northerners are having a hard time letting go of his title, even though he’s relinquished it in full view of them. I thought little Lady Mormont was fit to spit nails when she stood before him in the hall. Daenerys has yet to comment on the girl.”

“I think our queen has had her attention elsewhere,” Tyrion said, leaning his arms on the stone as he watched Rhaegal looming in the distance to bring its rider back home.

It made Varys nervous. Daenerys needed to be focused on winning the people’s hearts and she’d been distracted. Then there’d been the entire business of the Tarly boy.

“Were you aware that Randyll Tarly’s eldest son is here at Winterfell?” Varys turned to take in Tyrion’s worried face. “And furthermore, that Daenerys had met with him and already informed the poor lad that she’d burned his father and brother alive?”

Tyrion looked down upon the bustle of the courtyard again. “No. I didn’t know that.”

“Oh, it gets better,” Varys went on with a building suspense. “Samwell Tarly, now heir to Horn Hill and lord of House Tarly, is apparently best friends with our beloved _Jon Snow_ ,” he uttered in mock surprise, the information having already shocked him when he overheard it from Jorah, expressing his condolences to none other than Snow himself.

The weight in Tyrion’s expression grew heavier. “That’s not good.”

“It certainly complicates things,” he replied, his concern growing with Tyrion’s at the potential action their queen would likely take if she were rejected by her Northern lover.

Tyrion looked as though he were about to suggest the same when they heard a commotion from down in the courtyard. Stark men and Unsullied dropped what they were doing as an increasing rumble rose from the crowd and then people started to run towards the East gate.

“What do you suppose has happened?” Varys asked, noticing that Rhaegal and Snow were gone from the sky.

“You there!” Tyrion called below to a young boy running just below them. When the boy stopped to look up at them Varys recognized him as Snow’s steward, as he’d already engaged him in conversation the day before. The boy had been downright worshipful of his master and loath to offer up even a tiny morsel about his lord’s private nature. “What’s happened? Where’s everyone going?” Tyrion enquired.

“It’s the Kingslayer, my lords!” The boy pointed towards the throng making their way down the lane. “Lord Brandon is bringing him to the Great Hall!”

******

Varys sat at the table and watched the tense setting unfold.

“What does the Warden of the North say about it?”

Jaime Lannister had been brought before the court, to face Daenerys and await his judgment as the news that his sister had never had any intentions to send an army was received. Lady Brienne had spoken for the man, and Varys watched the back of Tyrion, seeing the stiff way he held himself as he worried for his brother. She had spoken eloquently and it had moved Sansa Stark in favor of letting Jaime stay, much to the displeasure of their queen. But the queen and all other eyes were on Jon Snow at the moment. The man looked as if he’d just awakened, taking a surprised breath before offering his verdict.

“We need every man we can get.”

By the set of her jaw, that had not been what Daenerys had been hoping for, and when she rose, with everyone else following, Varys watched as she leaned towards Snow to speak to him, only to have Snow nod and briskly walk past her, fleeing the Great Hall like a man with a purpose. Daenerys faltered but for a second before she was striding out of the hall and Varys was quick to fall in step with the rest of her advisors. Once they were in the halls leading back to the Keep, she let out her full fury, unleashing a tirade on Tyrion. Jon Snow’s avoidance was getting to her, but so was Sansa Stark, and Varys felt the first stirrings of fear for the young lady as he followed Daenerys back to the Keep.

“Cersei still sits on the throne. If you can’t help me take it back, I’ll find another Hand who can.”

Daenerys had given a pointed look towards Jorah, her meaning clear, and Tyrion had been humbled most soundly. “I suspect one of you will be wearing this before it’s all over,” he told them.

But as Varys continued on back to his chamber, he worried again over Daenerys’s increasing agitation. Tyrion had told him of the culmination of his talk with Cersei after Jon Snow’s public allegiance to Daenerys, how he’d explained to his sister that Daenerys knew herself which was why she had him as her Hand, to temper her worst impulses. But Tyrion had been losing whatever influence he imagined he had on the queen from the start and she was slowly becoming inured to his protestations. It was time for Jon Snow to step in, to soothe her in the face of the uncertainty they all felt. And yet he had looked for any opportunity to be away from her. Varys couldn’t be sure it was simply the Tarly situation. From all that he’d heard, that had seemed like something that Snow would forgive. There was another issue afoot and he needed to find out what before the queen grew any more brittle.

Later in his room, he began to draw up a letter to an informant in Dorne, a noble who had been instrumental in getting Varys to appear before the Sand woman. As he dipped his pen in the inkpot, he heard a soft knock at his door.

“Come in,” he said.

The girl who stepped in was indiscriminate from the rest of the chambermaids at first, but then he recognized her eyes set too far apart and recalled their previous conversation. “Why, hello, my dear. Have you brought me something else?”

She had. Jorah had convinced the queen to speak with Sansa Stark and she was on her way to the Lady of Winterfell right at that moment, with Grey Worm escorting her.

“And where is Lady Stark currently working?”

“In the library, m’lord,” the girl answered with big eyes. “With Lord Royce. And there’s somethin’ else.”

A group of Ironborn had been spotted riding up to the East gate. And none other than Theon Greyjoy was leading them. It had set off another shock through the residents of Winterfell: to see the man who had murdered Ser Rodrick, who had forced Lord Brandon to yield the castle, and who had been ready to watch it burn, killing those two boys, now marching back into the confines of its walls. No one knew what to make of it. A horn blasted from outside of his window, heralding their arrival.

“Excellent, my dear. You’ve been most helpful. And here is the Essence-of-Nightshade I procured for you.” He opened his box on the desk and handed the girl a small leather pouch. “Use it well.”

As soon as the girl left, Varys stood up and slid on his rings. He would call on Lord Royce before the day was over, but first thing, he needed to find out what news young Theon Greyjoy had brought. He hoped it was something good.

When he arrived in the Great Hall, he stood to the back behind the cluster of Ironborn assembled there, and was about to step forward to greet Theon when the queen strode in with Sansa Stark behind her. Theon kneeled before her, quiet and somber, but then Daenerys had enquired about his sister, Yara, remarking on her absence. It was then that Varys noticed Sansa’s face, seeing her fighting back tears.

“I want to fight for Winterfell, Lady Sansa. If you’ll have me.”

The girl rushed to him, wrapping her arms around him in a heartfelt hug, much to the chagrin of Daenerys, Varys observed from his corner. Theon and Yara were allies to the queen and yet he had come to fight for the Starks. This was most curious. Varys had learned from his talks with Lady Brienne while they sailed that it was Theon who had helped Sansa escape this place to take her to her brother at Castle Black. It appeared a bond had been forged, and Theon’s loyalties were decidedly with the family that had fostered him. He wondered how Jon Snow would look upon this.

Sansa quickly took over the proceedings, calling out to Maester Wolkan to tell their cook to get the soldiers fed, and to prepare a room for Theon in the Great Keep on the floor with her family. The look on Daenerys’s face was telling. She was struggling.

Varys slunk out of the hall and made his way back to his room. He needed news from King’s Landing.

* * *

“What do you think they’re saying?”

Arya leaned against a post outside of the forge, sipping hot broth from her cup, courtesy of the cauldron under the tent, where the workers were being served for a midday break. She had come to find Gendry taking his meal as he sat on a stump, and they talked of his progress on her staff until they’d both watched Jon come out of the armory with Ser Davos, two Dothraki women clinging to either side of him as they chatted. The quartet had gone to the tent as well, standing under its canopy as the Northern men and women came up to receive their soup, nodding with respect to Jon while simultaneously wary of the Dothraki women.

“I don’t know. Jon knows only a little Dothraki, though, so they must be speaking in the Common tongue. I think I’ve seen them with the dragon queen before.”

“Sure looks like they fancy your brother,” Gendry commented with a grunt. “That one on the right looks like she’s ready to have him for supper.”

“Shut up,” she snapped in annoyance. She was just excited to see Jon out and about, mingling with the rest of them. But the girl Gendry pointed out was staring up at Jon as though he’d single-handedly brought out the sun. Not that there was much of it, the skies overcast and heavy with the portent of more snow. Both women wore thick coats of fur, their black hair in long braids and their eyes kohl-rimmed. Both hung on Jon’s arm and cast their gaze to where her brother directed them, his hand waving across the courtyard to the trenches stuffed with spikes outside the gate as he spoke. Jon wore his dark blue surcoat without his cloak.

“I guess that’s one way to get Dothraki screamers on your side. Go through their women,” Gendry said wryly, taking another slurp from his bowl as he watched the women turn excited when Ghost casually trotted up to his master.

“What do you know about Dothraki screamers?” she asked him, pushing herself away from the post with her foot, her soup finished.

“I know they scare the hell out of me,” he answered. “A couple of them wanted me to fashion them one of their strange looking swords out of dragonglass. I had to tell them it wouldn’t bend that way. Snapped right in half.”

“Good, that means you have more time to work on my weapon,” she reminded him. “So why don’t you get back to that and I’ll stop by later.”

“Ah, right, should have known you’d only come by for one thing,” he quipped, giving her a sullen look. “I guess I’d best take my leave, my lady.”

But her eyes were still on Jon, seeing him laugh at something the younger, prettier girl was saying to him, her eyes wide with wonder as Ghost took a sniff of her hand. “Are you finished? Hand me your bowl,” she demanded, sticking a hand out to collect it from Gendry as he stood up in a huff.

“Fine, but I’ve got a bunch more arrowheads to make before – hello?”

Arya was already walking away, heading straight for the tent to deposit the crockery when Jon took notice of her and waved her over, his smile widening. She walked faster, her hand on Needle’s hilt as she gained closer. She hadn’t seen Jon since the news that Theon had returned, and it put her in a hopeful mind to see him in a good mood.

“Arya! Come here, I want you to meet some friends,” her brother called, to the notice of those Northern soldiers standing around. Ser Davos, the women, and even Ghost all turned to watch her make her way to them.

She dropped her handful of dishes on the table erected under the tent before walking up to stand next to Ghost, dropping a hand to the back of his neck.

“Arya, I’d like to introduce you to the queen’s handmaidens. This is Zhiqi,” he said as he held out a hand towards the woman on his left. She gave Arya a hesitant smile and tilted her head, distrusting as she scanned Arya’s clothes up and down with amusement. Jon put a hand to the back of the other woman, resting it on her shoulder, and the girl snapped her eyes up at Jon again with a coquettish gaze. “And this is Ornela.” He pointed to Arya then. “Ladies, this is my sister, Arya Stark of Winterfell. She is a great warrior.”

“Hello,” she said, giving a curt nod. She looked to Jon’s advisor. “Ser Davos,” she nodded again, her hand still on the back of Ghost. The direwolf seemed not at all threatened by them, a welcoming sign.

“You are woman?” the one on the left said with a broader smile. She turned to say something in Dothraki to her friend and Jon’s mouth quirked.

“They like your clothes,” he explained. “You’re more like them, she said. They don’t understand the long dresses the women here wear.”

“It must be very difficult for you,” she said to the women. “Getting used to the cold.” She looked down at their feet. “I like your boots.” They were layered in fur with strips of leather wrapped around them, much like the free folk.

“I no see snow before,” Ornela said to her shyly. “Is pretty. But,” and she clasped her hands to either side of her arms as she attempted to act out the chill. She looked up at Jon adoringly. “Is like _Khal_ Jon name, he say.”

“Khal Jon?” she questioned flatly, raising an eyebrow as she glanced at her brother. He cast his gaze to the ground, looking uncomfortable.

“It’s nothing, they just got used to calling me that.”

“I believe that would include just about all of the North,” Ser Davos commented out of the side of his mouth, scanning a look over the residents in the yard.

“You have great beast,” Zhiqi said to Jon, with a flirtatious look in her eyes. “Why you no tell?”

“Ghost is a friend. He doesn’t belong to me. He goes where he wants.”

The two women looked at each other and then back to Jon. “Ghost? _Lei?_ Is like grass?” They looked to the direwolf again, but with a hint of suspicion in their eyes.

“What is ghost grass,” Ser Davos asked.

“It’s an old legend the Dothraki believe,” said a rich voice from behind her. Arya turned to see Ser Jorah step up to their little circle. “That a grass as pale and white as milkglass which grows taller than their horses will one day choke the world, killing the other grasses and ending all of life. They believe it to be filled with the spirits of the damned. Ser Davos,” the man greeted, before turning to Jon with a bow of his head. “Lord Jon, my ladies. I don’t mean to disturb your conversation, I come bearing a summons from your sister,” he said.

But Arya was curious now. “That sounds like the White Walkers,” she opined.

“Aye, it does. There are tales of the Others in the lore of the East, but they are slightly different,” Jorah explained.

“Ser Jorah, who is being summoned,” Jon asked, his mouth turning downward.

“You, my lord.” He handed Jon a small piece of parchment. “Lady Stark asked me to give this to you.”

Her brother extracted himself from the women flanking him and opened the parchment, reading it quickly.

“You must pardon me, my ladies,” he said to them. “I need to tend to a matter. Go get something to warm you and I will meet up with you later.”

“Is it Theon?” Arya asked, before he could leave. She was beginning to wonder what was going on with Greyjoy and her sister. Sansa had spent most of the day with him since his arrival the day before.

Jon looked at her blankly. “Sansa just needs me to meet with her to review something. I’ll stop by the forge later and you can show me your design.” He nodded to Davos. “Ser Davos, Ser Jorah, my apologies, but if you would be so kind as to take care of Ornela and Zhiqi, I must be on my way.”

The men gave their assurances and then Jon marched away from their tent, heading towards the library – and away from the Keep. But before he made it anywhere near the tower, Arya watched him disappear under another archway, appearing to go in a different direction. Arya narrowed her eyes and wondered where they were meeting.

She turned to the group in her midst. “Ladies, it was very nice to make your acquaintance. Do make yourselves home here at Winterfell,” she said graciously. She nodded to the men. “Sers, I’m afraid I have business as well. If you’ll excuse me, I will take my leave.”

She said her goodbyes and made tracks for the Keep. She would cut through it and come from behind, Arya decided, seeing if she could catch Jon on the west side of the grounds where the kitchens opened up to the servants' housing. It was an odd route he was taking and she tried to think ahead to where Sansa would be expecting to meet him. Hot pitch in her gut bubbled up, her thoughts securing on the idea that Jon’s rendezvous with Sansa was meant to be private. She moved quickly once she reached the Keep, cutting a sharp right to take the outer rim of the corridors. Once she saw it was clear, she ran.

As she came to the end of the pathway, she turned to drag open a set of doors and went through one of the storage chambers, using its back exit as a short cut to the next set of corridors. She made another sharp turn and then came through to the end of the hallway, finding herself by the stairs leading down to the back of the Keep. There was an archway to the outside and as Arya ran through it, she saw Jon walking past the Guards Hall, and she quickly ducked back behind the wall for cover. Looking out over the towers, she thought he might be heading towards the rookery, or possibly to see Maester Wolkan, but neither seemed like the place Sansa would want to meet him. When he disappeared from view again, she slipped out from behind her column and took the back route to the kitchens. The more she followed, the more curious she became. What did Sansa want from him? Why so far away? Coming up beside the kitchens, she dodged some hens and ducked behind another column just as Jon walked past. He didn’t stop at the maester’s turret but kept moving, in his determined gait, and then Arya had a sudden realization of where he was headed.

The excited barks of the hounds and the fresh snow masked her oncoming footsteps but as she came to the yard, she saw Jon enter the kennels. On swift feet, she crossed the yard and flattened herself against the kennel wall, the baying and yipping growing louder as Jon made his way farther down the length of the hall.

“Sansa, what is it?” she heard him say.

Arya couldn’t hear her sister’s reply, however, as the barking of the dogs drowned out her sister’s voice. She had to see inside. The sun’s light was wan, and shadows darkened the entrance as heavy clouds trundled past. She took a chance and stepped to the side of the doors opened wide. They were down at the end of the row, she could see, Jon and Sansa intent on each other as her sister held a basket on her arm. Sansa was talking in heated whispers, her head bent towards him and a hand wrapped around the upper part of his arm. One of the hounds howled mournfully for his supper and Jon’s words were muffled, but he looked as if he was disagreeing with her, shaking his head a few times before her sister pressed a hand to his cheek. She spoke again, with much passion this time, and Jon leaned in to hold her by the shoulders. It was driving Arya mad that she couldn’t hear them, but there was no way to get closer. Sansa seemed to be frustrated with whatever he said, but then her hand slid down to his chest, where she rested her palm flat upon his heart.

He said something softly to her, taking one hand from her shoulder and sliding it down the tresses of Sansa’s hair which hung over her bodice. He tugged on a hank of it playfully, and then Sansa was clutching his hand with her own wrapped around it. She muttered her reply and even from where Arya stood, she could see her sister’s gaze land on Jon’s mouth, the hunger in her features hard to miss. Arya’s heart beat faster, alarm clanging throughout her. Part of her wanted to step away, wanted to not see this, but she couldn’t move.

Jon broke the spell and moved away from her first, waving a hand towards the cages. “Sansa! Give them their dinner already!” he shouted. “I told you I’d do what you asked.”

“Wait!” she called as he turned to leave. Arya hugged the door tighter, hoping the weak sun wouldn’t break through the clouds. When Jon looked back at her sister, Sansa was putting her hand on their brother again, slipping it to the back of his neck as she asked him something else, but now Arya couldn’t see their faces at all, Jon’s body blocking them. Yet the next second he was turning his head towards the dogs, emitting a deep sigh. He nodded slowly and then Sansa was hugging him in gratitude, it appeared, her face buried in his neck and the basket dropped to the floor.

Before Jon could pull away, Sansa kissed his cheek and smiled warmly as she stepped back. Arya was able to see her sister's face clearly once more. Sansa picked up her basket again and just as Jon turned for the exit Arya slipped backwards, her back on the stone. Sliding her boots in the snow, Arya scrambled sideways, edging around the corner as Jon made his way out from the kennel doors. She kept walking down the side of the building and didn’t turn back, her thoughts in a jumble as Sansa’s face kept flashing before her, the way she looked at Jon when she thought no one else was looking. All of the remarks, the secrets, the yearning glances, all of it began to make sense now, the truth sitting there the entire time. And understanding shook her as she began to run, her boots kicking up the snow in a spray of fine powder, while Arya realized what had been going on here, the cold freezing her lungs as she sucked in more air.

Sansa had fallen in love with their brother.

* * *

Varys stood with the others as they made a ring around the table at the center of the library where Jon held counsel. The Warden of the North was presenting an updated version of the map depicting their forces and strategy. Tiles representing the various houses were clustered across the painted likeness of Winterfell, the bulk of the forces in front of the castle walls, facing the North. Tyrion stood next to him, but those present also included the Lady of Winterfell, her sister, Sers Jorah and Davos, Lord Royce, Lady Karstark and a few of her generals, Lady Brienne, Grey Worm, the queen’s commander of the Dothraki, Qhono, and a surprising addition – Theon Greyjoy. Daenerys and Jon Snow stood at the head of the table where he had begun laying out their revised plan.

“So we’re keeping the Unsullied in front of the North gate,” he said, pointing to their tiles on the map. “They will be our first mainline of defense. Grey Worm, you’ll have your battalions on either side of the bridge we’ve constructed, and we’ve got the artillery positioned behind you. You’ll need a clean escape route to the castle once they’ve overwhelmed us. But until then, the objective is to winnow down as much of their ranks as we can. Lady Brienne has command of the left flank and will be in position with the Vale infantry, and we’re adding the remainder of the Umber and Tallhart forces to bring up the rear.”

Vays took note of Lord Royce, who gallantly bowed his head to Brienne. “It will be an honour to fight with you, Lady Brienne,” he said. The woman smiled tightly. “I hear the Kingslayer will be with us,” he added, the statement sounding like a question. The man glanced to Tyrion and nodded his head. “Apologies, my Lord Hand. Your brother, that is.”

“Yes, that is correct,” Snow answered sternly, brooking any further debate. “The Karstark infantry will take up most of the right flank. Ser Jorah will lead them. We have additional men from other banners to round out their numbers with Ser Donnar commanding their rear guard. Ser Davos will be manning the wall with a team of archers,” he glanced up to Theon Greyjoy, “led by the Ironborn, and Lady Mormont will have a unit inside the walls, in command of the gate. They’ll be the first wave of defense once the dead breach the walls. The Dothraki will be on either side of our flanks, and will periodically circle round the host and ride up on the inside route in a series of charges, providing relief as their numbers gain –”

“I thought we talked about this,” Daenerys interrupted. She looked to Qhono who leaned over the table and used the side of his hand to scoot the tiles to the front of the map.

“We fight better than white soldiers,” he said to everyone present. He looked up to the queen and nodded. “We take spirits.”

“I understand,” Snow said gravely, his eyes to the table. “And what you’re proposing is admirable, but it’s not a suitable position. The Dothraki are quick and agile, their advantage is in being able to break away swiftly and target the dead coming in from the sides. And if the Night King attacks in the dark, this cuts down their visibility dramatically and they won’t be much help at all charging down the center of the field. The dead will absorb them.”

“The Dothraki dominate an open field,” Daenrys said sharply. “It’s what they’re known for.”

Snow looked at her with a wide-eyed surprise. “Of course. But these aren’t Lannister soldiers quaking in their boots. There won’t be a rout from the dead. Screams won’t have any effect.”

“What if they were behind the Unsullied,” Tyrion suggested. “Would they be more effective to ride in after the initial charge if they were closer to the trenches? To give the Unsullied some cover once they need to retreat behind a wall of fire?”

“Dothraki not behind men. Dothraki in front of men,” Qhono insisted.

“The Dothraki will be in the vanguard then,” Daenerys stated, making the call. “For their queen.” She gave an assured nod to Qhono.

“But that’s a bad plan,” Snow said bluntly.

And then Varys turned to stone as he watched Daenerys whip her head towards Snow, the expression held there ready to cut him down with the blaze in her eyes. Everyone at the table stood silent, their breaths held, and Snow seemed to realize his mistake and immediately dropped his eyes to the table. “I’m sorry, Your Grace. Forgive my impertinence. I do not mean to suggest that the Dothraki are not brave and fierce. But these are not men we fight. I only wish to convey that we need the strength of the Dothraki elsewhere.”

“The Dothraki are a proud people” Daenerys responded hotly, “and my bloodriders are offering to step into the vanguard and take the first charge. We should allow them to serve this battle the way that _they_ see fit.”

“I’ll be in the vanguard with them, my queen.” All eyes turned to Ser Jorah as he spoke, his eyes on both Snow and Daenerys. “I will help lead them.” He looked to Lady Karstark. “I know the Karstarks are fierce fighters themselves and have good commanders to take control of their infantry. Please allow me the honour of leading the charge.”

The queen looked stricken at first but quickly recovered. “Thank you, Ser Jorah. The honour is mine to have you in my Queensguard. You may ride with the Dothraki.”

But Varys had turned his attention to Sansa Stark, who was watching her brother with concern. Snow took a harsh breath, and a wildness seemed to have invaded his eyes, as they darted across the table.

“As you wish, my queen,” he uttered, before looking up at them all, and Varys could see him fighting to settle the panic within him.

“You seem to be convinced that the dead will breach the castle, my lord,” Tyrion said. “But surely our numbers will be able to hold them off until the dragons can swoop in and set fire to their host.”

Snow gazed over the rearranged tiles and there seemed to be a strong sense of defeat in those eyes. “They _will_ overwhelm us. It’s inevitable.” He suddenly reached down to the end of the table and pushed all the remaining blank tiles into a full mass across their forces. “What we are trying to prevent is an all-out massacre. Every person we lose is a potential soldier for the other side. And make no mistake, casualties will be heavy.” He looked to each of them again, forcing his point. “Because they aren’t just the enemy, they are a swarm. We need to stop thinking of them as simply another army that plays by the rules. There are no rules of engagement with the dead. The queen and I will be on the backs of Drogon and Rhaegal, but we can’t spend the firepower on the host. We need to be out of sight until the Night King shows himself. That’s where we can make the greatest difference, striking the one who made them all.”

“You want us to sit this out,” Daenerys asked in shock.

“No, not at all. But we also need to be careful where we strike,” he said, his manner much more solicitous this time. “Your Grace, when you came beyond the wall, it was daylight, but if they come at us under the cover of darkness, then it becomes that much more difficult to take them out where they attack without the possibility of burning our own men alive. If we can destroy the Night King, then the rest will fall. That is our only hope.” Snow looked down at the map again. “He will bring in his White Walkers only after the most damage has been done. It is what he does, cause chaos until the defending army is depleted, then he comes in with his lieutenants to finish them off, and then … then he’ll raise the fallen bodies to add to his numbers.”

“Well,” Tyrion said drolly. “Thank you for that stirring talk to inspire us all, Lord Snow.”

“I don’t want anyone to hold any illusions about our chances, here,” Snow insisted. “We have dragons but,” and he swallowed hard. “So does the Night King. And giants. He has giants.”

“We can be second wave,” Grey Worm said, pointing to his squads across the map. “We will hold them. Until Ser Davos gives us signal.”

“We considered having you put up a shield wall,” Davos said to Grey Worm, leaning over the table as well to lay his hands near the picture of the castle walls. “Like the Boltons did to us. But the warden and I have discussed the fact that even with bigger shields, they aren’t going to stop anything, the dead'll just swarm right over ye. You want to be able to see what they're doing.”

“Unsullied always fight with shield.”

Ser Davos glanced up at the Unsullied commander. “Well alright then.”

Then Snow’s sister spoke up. “I’ll be on the walls with Ser Davos,” she said, eyeing her brother with a show of solidarity.

“I’ll be up there, too,” Lady Sansa added.

“Sansa,” her brother said immediately. He gave her a concerned look. “I don’t think that’s wise. You need to be down in the crypts with Bran and the others. You’re the Lady of Winterfell. You need to be protected.”

“I can help,” Sansa insisted. “I’m not useless.”

“No one is saying that. But someone needs to be down there to keep the women and children calm.”

“I did that at the battle of the Blackwater, and it was a waste of time.”

“Sansa, you are their lady, they’ll listen to you.”

“Then have Bran do it,” she said, frowning at him.

“Sansa, not now. Please.”

Varys turned to his side and shared a look with Tyrion as everyone at the table kept their tongues. Daenerys’s face seemed to be made of stone as she listened.

“All right then,” Ser Davos said in a jolly tone, breaking the tension. “Jon and I will go back to the drawing board and make the adjustments. We have Lord Brandon watching to see where the Umber party is now so we’ll let everyone know when we have a location. Thank you all for your input.” He looked to Daenerys.

“Your Grace, is there anything else you wanted to add?”

“No, that will be all, Ser Davos,” she said, raising her eyes to them all. “You may all take your leave.” The group around the table started to break apart, and Snow was one of the first to make his departure, but Daenerys shot out an arm and gripped him by the wrist. “Not you, my lord.”

A flash of fire seemed to spark up Snow’s eyes, before he gulped and turned to his queen.

“Of course, your Grace.”

Varys frowned down at Tyrion as they all herded out. There were no servants in the room, and he had no idea who might be privy to the conversation about to take place, but oh, Varys wanted to hear it, for sure. Lady Sansa swished by them in her silk dress and leather attire, an arm hooked in Theon Greyjoy’s, and Arya Stark trodding behind them with a glare at her sister’s back. There was so much unspoken hostility going on, Varys didn’t know where to turn first.

As they all filed out of the library towards the Keep, Varys nodded to his left as he acknowledged Tyrion. His friend stepped away from those leaving and stood to the side with Varys.

“So, shall we go and talk about what just transpired?”

But Tyrion only sighed. “I rather think not,” he said sheepishly. “I believe I will go and find my brother, if it’s all the same to you. I’ll talk to you later, Varys.”

Tyrion walked away to follow the others and Varys glanced back at the closed doors of the library with a deep longing.

* * *

Sansa heard the crunch of snow under her boots as she made her way to the crypts, a swirl of snow whipping around her as the winds blew stronger.

She’d gone looking for Jon again after the very strained supper in the family solar. No one had been in much of a mood to talk. The queen had taken her supper in her chambers and Tyrion was off somewhere with Jaime Lannister. Even Arya had been uncharacteristically quiet, and every attempt Sansa had made to engage her throughout the day had only elicited single-worded replies. She had noticed her sister had been spending most of her time near the forge, and wondered if the boy that Jon had brought back with him from King’s Landing had been the attraction. The questions Arya had on the matter of sex certainly pointed in that direction. But she worried for her sister. It was hard to tell what went on in Arya’s mind. Much like Jon.

Then there was the afternoon war council, and the fury which had welled up in Sansa as she watched the dragon queen belittle Jon, as if he were a poor student and she the septa administering a whack across the knuckles, came back to her in full force as she walked. The entire spectacle enraged her and she had hoped to discuss it with Arya after they’d left the room, but her sister had quickly disappeared. Still, Lord Royce agreed with her that it was disturbing to watch, and most unfitting to treat her warden in his own home that way. Yohn Royce told her stories of Daenerys’s father, ones she’d heard before, but she listened to him silently as he spoke gravely about the past.

And Jon. What was she to do for Jon? Something had been eating away at him and she knew it was more than his fear for Arya and Bran’s souls. She had hoped he would come to her in his own time, but she couldn’t wait any longer. Things with Daenerys were obviously growing worse.

Furthermore, there was a struggle in Jon. She had felt it in him the day he’d arrived and they’d talked in her office and it had only sharpened with each moment the two of them shared. When she had arranged to have Gareth come to Jon’s chambers, informing the lad that Jon was off entertaining the dragon queen, Jon’s reaction had been exactly what she had anticipated after he’d made the connection. His jealousy had been plain. And heated. It had been difficult for Sansa to keep her composure in the face of her brother’s desire. But then, he had cooled off almost instantly. She wanted to know what was going on with him.

At least he had been accepting of Theon. As Sansa saw the doors to the crypt wide open, the bright glow from its square landing on the snow in an invitation, she mused on her conversations with Theon in her chambers. He’d been so nervous, expecting to be attacked at any moment, and Sansa had been only too happy to have someone she could talk to, making sure to soothe him and see to it that he be given every comfort. Without Theon, she would never have survived. She would do everything she could for him now.

Sansa stepped through the doors and closed one of them behind her, cutting short the wind that whistled through the other side. She began the long trek down the staircase, holding her dress up from her boots with gloved fingers. She had on her furs but the cold grew frostier each day and Sansa shivered as she wound her way down, hearing her footsteps echo against the walls.

She saw him as she came around another bend – he was sitting on the bottom steps with his back to her, his arms hanging between his legs and head bent.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she said, surprised he wasn’t standing in front of Father, as he so liked to do. “You don’t half like to make it difficult for us, don’t you?”

She came and sat next to him, smiling at him to show she was teasing. But when Jon turned to face her, she saw his distress and grew instantly concerned. “What is it?” she said, her voice hushed as she grabbed him at the bicep. The cold went deeper still, through her flesh and into her bones until they ached. He looked horrible.

“Sansa, what are you doing down here?”

“I came to make sure you’re all right, but obviously you’re not,” she replied. “You wouldn’t say anything at dinner. I know something happened, Jon.” She wrapped both hands around his arm. “What did she say to you after we all left?”

He sighed and turned away. “I assume we’re talking of Daenerys?”

“Well, of course. I don’t like the way she spoke to you in front of everyone. It was disrespectful.”

Jon put a hand to his forehead and rubbed it with his fingers, his eyes closed. “Sansa, she’s our queen. She had every right to question my plan for the battle using her armies. They are here for her.”

“But she didn’t even let you finish making your point. You know the way the dead fight better than anybody. She should give you some courtesy to make your case and trust in you to make the right call.”

“We have a lot of battle commanders at the table, a lot of experienced men. Everyone has their own point to make and they all want to be heard. I’m just trying to get us in the best position I can to draw the Night King out.” Then he looked at her, meeting her gaze. “And I want you down here. I want you safe, Sansa.”

She scoffed, not liking the idea of Jon wanting to hide her away while he was off to fight with his dragon queen by his side. “And what was all that about making you stay behind, like some child to be scolded by his mother. Was it to berate you further after we’d all gone? Another lashing of scornful words?” She arched an eyebrow. “And I’m not the only one who was displeased with the way she looked at you. We all saw it.”

It was demoralizing, Sansa thought, seeing those images in her mind grow more vivid of what Jon let the dragon queen do to him when they were alone.

“Sansa, I’m _not_ a child, I’m a grown man, and I think I can handle a bit of criticism. She only wanted to draw attention to … to the fact that the Dothraki are different to us. Their culture doesn’t allow for them to be seen as some backup cavalry. It is who they are, the way that they fight. I didn’t really acknowledge that.”

But Sansa grew frustrated with Jon’s inability to see any fault with her. “You really will defend her at every opportunity, won’t you?” she said. “As if she can do no wrong.”

“ _Gods,”_ her brother breathed, his eyes shut. When he looked back at her, she saw his weariness in every line of his face. He held out his hands to her. “Sansa, what is it you want from me? Really? I don’t know what you’re expecting me to do. The dead are breathing down our necks at this point, you do understand that, don’t you?”

“I know, but –”

“But what? We don’t have time to quarrel amongst ourselves. We need to live through this. I told you, I don’t want to fight. Please, Sansa. Can you just trust me for once? I need you, in order to make this work.”

His frankness made her pause. Jon needed her. He said it. And she wanted to be here for him. She sidled closer to him, hugging his arm to her body.

“Fine. I’ll let it alone for now. Anyway, I came down here to say thank you.”

Jon stared at her with suspicion. “You did?”

“Yes. For allowing Theon to attend the council. He came here to fight for _us_. For the Starks. It meant a great deal to him that you included him at the table.”

“We spoke on Dragonstone, I told you before. I’ve made my peace with him. Even Bran holds no ill will towards Theon.” But Sansa knew Bran didn’t hold any grievance towards anyone anymore. He was incapable of it.

“Well, I wanted you to know how much I appreciated it. Theon said he always wanted to be a Stark.”

And then Jon had sucked in a breath as if in pain, and Sansa saw it in his eyes, how fragile he was, as he held in a sob and turned away from her, his shoulders beginning to shake.

“Jon, what is it?” she cried, reaching for his jaw to turn him to face her. “What’s happened?”

He held his fist to his mouth, trying to keep everything inside, her warrior brother, determined to protect everybody else but himself. He tried to carry too much and she saw how it was breaking him. She stroked his hair gently, a great surge of longing in her heart. She so wished to keep him from harm. Even if it was from himself.

“Jon, look at me. You can tell me,” she said tenderly, tucking a loose strand of his hair behind an ear.

“I don’t – I don’t know what I’m doing,” he whispered hoarsely.

She worried her brow. “Jon, you do. Look at all you’ve done,” she said, holding him tight. “Whatever may come for us, we know you’ve done everything you can for the North.”

“But if I am wrong, if I make a mistake, thousands will die,” he gasped.

“You can’t think like that, Jon. You’re only one man. We’re all going to fight till our last breath. And I am here to help you.” She made him look at her, holding his face. “You said it yourself, you need me.”

He nodded his head vigorously, his hand coming up to grasp her wrist. “I do, Sansa. I do need you.”

And hearing him say it, his pain and his need for her so raw in his face, the way he looked at her as if she was his only hope – it was too overwhelming. Sansa still wanted him. She wanted him more than she’d ever had, as if the days between their last kiss had been only a second.

“Jon,” she whispered, right before she leaned into him, pressed her lips to his. She heard him breathe in, felt it as his mouth opened, and then Sansa had her hands grasped tight around the back of his neck, her desire flooding her so strongly she thought she would be swept away in it, and her tongue slipped into his mouth, and it was as before. A growl rose in her throat as she felt her body light up into a thousand fires.

Then strong hands were gripping her arms pushing her back roughly, breaking them apart, and Jon leaned away from her, his eyes wide as moons, as he gaped at her in horror.

“Sansa! What are you doing?!”

Confusion spread through her, and she felt her face grow hot at his accusation.

“I don’t understand,” she balked. “You were – I thought,” she halted.

“You thought what?!” he demanded. “I told you before I left, we can’t do this anymore. I mean, gods, Sansa, we have Arya and Bran here now. What were you expecting?” His anger crept into his voice and she felt it spark her own.

“Then why are you looking at me like that?” She scoffed as she slid away from him. “What was all that about just now?”

“What are you talking about? Looking at you how?”

“I don’t know. As if you _wanted_ me to kiss you. Like you want me to … to comfort you.”

He stared at her for a moment, his shock full in his face, before he let out another deep breath, shaking his head.

“You’re right. I was. Looking for comfort.” He took hold of her hand and gripped it in his. “But I wanted comfort from my _sister_.” A deep sadness filled his eyes. “Can we no longer be that to each other?” he asked in despair. “Is it impossible now? That we can ever hope to be siblings again? That we can just be family for each other.” His shoulders drooped as he looked to his knees. “Am I not allowed to be near you, Sansa?”

Her heart was racing, and Sansa didn’t know what to say to him. She wanted her brother, but more than anything she wanted to be close to him. Yet she also knew what her body felt, how it craved his touch.

“I’m sorry, Jon,” she said. “You _are_ my family. Nothing will ever change that.” She squeezed his hand. “You know I will always be here for you.”

Jon appeared to accept her declarations, and he nodded silently to her, letting her wrap her arms about his neck so she could show him, that their connection was real. He slowly slid his arms up her back and squeezed her to him, a deep sigh from over her shoulder as he held her to him.

“Sansa,” she heard him say and she quickly turned her head and kissed his neck, the smell of him igniting her arousal. Jon turned slightly toward her, and then she felt that need again, remembered the way he would dive between her legs, the way he made her feel so delicious for days, the feel of him inside of her pushing her terrors away, and his mouth, the glorious things he did with his mouth, and then she was on his lips again, sucking on them, and then his tongue was back in her mouth and she whined, the pounding pulse between her legs deafening, and she wanted to climb in his lap …

“Sansa!” he shouted as he stood them up, pushing her back. “Stop it!”

She felt snapped out of her daze, her irritation a buzzing under her skin. He needed to make up his mind.

“Well, you kissed me this time! I’m not made of stone!”

Jon pressed his hands to the top of his head. “I really cannot deal with this right now.”

Sansa stood there, stunned. What had this queen done to him?

“Fine,” she hissed. “Stay here then, I’ll leave you to your moping.” She turned and lifted the hem of her dress, ready to run back up the steps.

“Sansa! I’m not trying to do anything here! I promise you. But we can’t start this again. You know that.”

“I don’t know anything,” she spat back at him. _I’m just a stupid girl who never learns._ She turned her back on him and stormed up the steps, no longer interested in what he had to say. At least she had Theon to commiserate with, she thought, a stone in her throat as she fought the tears from Jon’s rejection. She was the Lady of Winterfell. Sansa thought of her mother. She would not cry.

When she reached the top of the landing, Sansa threw open the door she’d closed shut and let it bang against the wall to announce her fury. The wind whipped her face and its urgency matched her own, the need to get away from Jon and push her desire down.

She marched through the snow to get to the Keep, the light from the doorway leaving her as she walked further into the dark.

* * *

Her sister stormed past her, slamming the door against the wall as she made her way out.

Arya had her back pressed flush against the stone, tucked into the tight space behind the column at the top of the stairs. Her eyes burned as she stared ahead, her breath gone. She tried to swallow, but could barely close her throat.

She heard Jon below.

“Fuck!” he yelled into the hall of Northern kings, her father down there with them. She waited for him to come up, her body trembling, but then the sound of his boots on the dirt were getting further away, as he walked deeper into the crypts.

Arya turned her sight to the outside, beyond the doors. Her sister had disappeared into the dark, her shadow no longer visible. She closed her eyes, the words from Jon and Sansa coming back to haunt her. _We can’t do this anymore._

Anymore.

It was worse than she’d thought. She saw her sister’s face again, describing how wonderful her mystery lover had been. And Arya felt so cold.

She no longer heard Jon below.

Arya ran out the crypts and into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll just add the disclaimer that while I love watching battles, I know nothing about planning them.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Those who can make you believe absurdities, can make you commit atrocities." 
> 
> "When enough people make false promises, words stop meaning anything. Then there are no more answers, only better and better lies."

**.xxxvi**

Jon stood in the center of the room and stared at them.

He’d had to come out of the crypts eventually, but only after he’d spent some time with his mother’s statue, attempting to calm down. Standing there, seeing Lyanna, her hand outstretched towards him, Jon felt such a strong pull towards her. It was a bleak discovery, to know that those loved ones who had passed from this world would not be waiting for him when he died – that there would be nothing at all. He did not get to indulge a fantasy of seeing her greet him in a warm and sunny afterlife. Jon knew he had no one waiting. Lyanna was gone, her bones turned to dust. All he had was this memorial to her, to stand before her and wonder how she would have loved him: how she would have let him feed from her breast, would have tousled his hair when he was a boy, would have gently scolded him when he had been bad. And standing before his mother, he thought of the women who had guided him, the women who held his heart, and realized that they were all variations on the mother he’d wished he’d known. He had needed their love, their faith in him, to keep going, to keep fighting.

And so he had come to the Keep and marched to his chambers, and the moment he closed his door behind him, had kept walking until he’d reached the servants’ entrance and stepped into the hidden hall. Jon had sauntered quietly to Sansa’s chambers, deep in thought, and had let himself in, with the sole intention of apologizing to her. He hadn’t meant to confuse Sansa. It was unfair of him to expect her to pretend that everything they’d done with each other had never happened, especially in so dark a time. Knowing how difficult it was to stand in Dany’s presence and not feel that panic take over, those repellant images in his head ready to chase him away, he had turned to Sansa to feel at ease in her arms. Had trusted in the way she would want to harbor him, would want to touch him.

To say he’d been naïve would be a falsehood. Jon had wanted her to console him. And for a second – for a blindingly free second – he’d remembered that she wasn’t really his sister and had held her tighter. Was it worse to lay with your aunt over a cousin? Not quite as bad as a sister? He didn’t know anymore. He didn’t know anything.

But he’d been horrified, nonetheless, that he’d allowed even that small indiscretion to happen. Pushing her away, he’d seen the hurt in her eyes, and then Dany’s face loomed before him, and their pain was intertwined in that moment, all of it caused by him. He couldn’t stand it.

So he’d come to tell her he was sorry. To ask for her forgiveness. And he’d found them lying together. He sighed wearily as he raked eyes over the two of them tucked into each other sound asleep, Sansa curled around Theon’s back, like a mother protecting her cub. At least they were both dressed, he noticed, Sansa’s arms bare under her little capped sleeves of her white nightgown, the one with the eyelets in the frills.

He wouldn’t wake them. Jon turned around and slowly crept out. His thoughts turned to Dany at the council, the way she’d beseeched him for answers when they’d been alone. And he’d made his excuses so he could get out of there. He would have to talk to her soon. Even if he wasn’t quite ready to utter the truth to her yet, wanted to hold onto his fantasy – one where they could have had a life together – just a little bit longer before it was splintered apart, Jon also wanted to soothe her. To comfort her, in whatever manner was left.

Jon silently closed the door behind him, his steps soft on the earth as he made his way to his rooms.

* * *

Daenerys was in a state.

It was mutton. Again.

She didn’t even like mutton, but she had eaten it, had swallowed it down when they’d been in the hall for the feast, because she certainly understood that as queen she could hardly refuse the meal being offered when there were countless country folk coming through the gates being rationed a meagerly sustenance. Yet, here she was in her chambers, too distressed to even face Jon’s family, or his people, for another night. She just wanted some time to herself to gather her thoughts, to be away from judging eyes for an evening.

She put the domed cloche back over her plate and glared up at the servant girl who’d brought it.

“Thank you, Glennis. You may go now.”

“Will you be needin’ anythin’ else, Your Grace?” the girl asked stiffly.

Daenerys glanced to Zhiqi, who was staring disapprovingly at the tray that had been brought for them. “I don’t think so,” she answered, although there was one thing that she most definitely needed, and only one person who could provide it. He, however, was not here.

She thought of his face the last time they’d been alone and took a sharp breath, watching the girl leave through the door while her handmaidens immediately rushed over to inspect the food. They started chatting between them as they lifted more domes but Daenerys was busy willing Jon to come to her chambers right then and explain himself.

Thinking of the council meeting the day before, the scene played out in her mind again, the moment when Jon had challenged her before all of them. It had been shocking, and insulting, his response immediately summoning a moment long ago when Jorah and Ser Barristan had questioned her in front of Kraznys. To realize that even Jon would oppose her so openly had been sobering, and knocked her out of her worrying mind of his sudden detachment, reminded her that she was his queen first and foremost, and he needed to afford her the same respect as she expected from everyone else, no matter if they were lovers. Of that last note, she had begun to wonder if it were still true. She had no idea what had changed between them, but she was determined to find out. Demanding he stay once she’d dispersed the rest of the council, she had caught the dark flash in his eyes, the anger that had shot up for a second before he managed it, and it had only made her more committed to explaining her position.

“You can acknowledge, at least, that I have some insight into the Dothraki that you may not share?” she’d asked him. “I understand them. They are not merely tiles to be moved around on a table to me.”

“I do acknowledge that, Your Grace,” he’d insisted, speaking in a gruff burr and meeting her eyes for once. “But this isn’t about what all of us are accustomed to, it’s about survival. They’re looking at this as they do every battle, and that will not help them. You are sending them to their deaths by allowing them this position.”

Her temper had flared, her jaw clenching to hear him suggest such a thing, but she had taken a breath before speaking, though her tone was still icy.

“ _You_ brought us here,” she reminded him. “To fight this war for you.” As she had explained to his sister once already. _Who manipulated whom?_

Jon’s eyes had widened and he bent his head in deference. “You did, but this war isn’t about me. It isn’t even about the North. You saw the horde, Dany. You know what we all face.”

She had. Yet, just hearing him say her name aloud with such tenderness had punctured some of her ire, the heat of it deflating, and she had put her hand over the back of his and held it tight to feel close to him again.

“I do know. But you have to remember, Jon, that the Dothraki follow strength. For me to step back, to defer to you and allow them to be sidelined – this would make me look weak. You are a man, so you expect that your men will follow you no matter what you ask of them, because they see it as your right. But as a woman, I need to present a position of power, always.” Or else they would dismiss her, she thought, remembering the words of Drogo’s bloodrider, Qotho: _When he dies, she is nothing._

 _Anha vosoon avvos. Anha qoy zhavvorsi!_ – _I have never been_ _nothing_ , she had told him then. _I am the blood of the dragon!_ It filled her, that potent legacy, as she had faced Jon. She needed him to understand. She did not have the luxury of being a mother to her bloodriders. They demanded a warrior.

“I suppose I never considered that,” he confessed to her, staring at the map below.

“If they die, they glory in the fact that they died fighting. Cowards are put to death in disgrace with the Dothraki. This is their way. It is a great honour for them to be in the vanguard. Don’t take that away from them.”

He had studied her in that maddeningly patient way of his. “So you would sacrifice them then? You’re alright with this?”

“A man should be allowed to choose the manner of his death, wouldn’t you agree?” She saw some recognition in his eyes, the both of them knowing that Jon had not been allowed that courtesy.

“If that is what you wish,” he’d said, but that hadn’t been enough for her.

“What I _wish,_ ” she’d replied with a hammered note, “is for you to look at me. To tell me why you’ve disappeared without any explanation. You ran when I saw you with Rhaegal. Why? What is going on with you, Jon?” she’d asked, her voice softening.

And then she’d seen the grief spring to his face, before he’d turned away quickly, his breath hitching as he’d tried to answer her.

“It is … my family. I do not mean to evade you, Dany. I know it has been difficult. That I’ve not sought you out. I cannot give you a simple answer, but my focus has been on this war. Once it starts …” he breathed in and turned to her, his eyes so full of fear.

“We will fight them together,” she said softly, squeezing his hand in hers.

But then he’d ripped his hand free and she saw something that appeared frighteningly like disgust ripple over his features as he stepped back, and her body had gone cold to see it.

“I’m sorry, Dany. I need to go.” He took another step away from her. “I will do as you have commanded. The Dothraki will stay in the van.” And then he’d marched quickly out of the room, leaving her gaping at his back. It had been the second time in as many days that she’d been mystified and rebuffed by a Stark in the library. Daenerys had been incensed at the end of her meeting with the Lady Sansa. She had not expected to feel the same with the young woman’s brother.

The irritation with Sansa came back in a flood as she stared at the plate of food again, Zhiqi still complaining as she spoke in Dothraki, Daenerys only half listening. The entire meeting had left her stymied, not understanding Jon’s sister’s insistence for independence. Tyrion’s words came back to haunt her, from when she’d offered Yara Greyjoy the very same thing back in Meereen. _What if everyone starts demanding their independence?_

_She’s not demanding, she’s asking. The others are free to ask as well._

So had that been it? The way that Sansa Stark had demanded their freedom, rather than ingratiating herself to Daenerys? _What about the North?_ The North was significant, it was endless.

The Seven Kingdoms were really nine provinces, after all, and the Greyjoys had asked for independence for the Islands which were currently being held by its self-crowned king, a craven and violent man who had pledged his armada to Cersei. She had admired their rebellion, led by the sister, and had wanted to secure their support and their ships in any manner she could. But beyond those ships, the Iron Islands weren’t much of a power, in contrast to the North and the other kingdoms. Tyrion had been right. What would her rule be if she continued to sheer off every province demanding its own republic?

Yet Jon had already bent the knee to her, after she had promised him her armies for this unholy war. What right did the sister have to undermine that? Yara Greyjoy had been respectful, and even flattering. _We’d like you to help us murder an uncle or two who doesn’t think a woman is fit to rule._ Daenerys had felt a kinship to Yara, as two powerful women who had fought men all their lives but had managed to lead them, too, igniting men who respected them. Yet there was something about the way that Sansa Stark had been almost dismissive of her brother’s authority that had grated on her.

 _Brienne has been loyal to me, always. I trust her more than anyone._ That had seemed odd to her, that Sansa Stark didn’t appear to trust Jon. She remembered how he had suggested that his sister didn’t like him much growing up, but presumably, she did now. That she didn’t trust him the way she trusted her sworn shield seemed notable. And then Sansa had taken the opposite view on anything Dany had offered, whether it had been about Tyrion, or Jon. _Men do stupid things for women._ It had bothered her, the barely concealed suggestion that Jon was stupid for pledging himself to Daenerys. But she had smiled through it and tried to find common ground with the girl, using the example of their gender in the way that Yara had with her. They were both women in positions of leadership, after all, and that should have been celebrated. It was bad enough she had to take on Cersei. She would not be at odds with every woman who had fought for a place at the table of power.

_All my life, I've known one goal – the Iron Throne. Taking it back from the people who destroyed my family, and almost destroyed yours. My war was against them. Until I met Jon. Now I'm here, half a world away, fighting Jon's war alongside him._

She had opened herself up to Jon’s family, had shared her heart, but Sansa Stark had continued to push back. Daenerys still seethed on it, her nostrils flaring at the unappetizing sight of the congealing gravy and mutton on her plate. The meat reminded her too much of the fate of the Lhazareen, and Daenerys felt an inkling of paranoia, the idea that somehow Sansa Stark had discovered this aversion and made sure to offer it to her over and over.

“Ornela, tell me again what he said about his sisters?” She didn’t need to name who she was asking about. She’d purposely sent the women to hunt down Jon and find out what he was up to, and they’d been eager to gossip about the people they’d encountered while spending an afternoon with him. That he had run off at his sister’s summons had been an interesting detail for her to belabor.

“He say little one is great warrior. He say other one smart.” Ornela moved the tray to the floor, where she sat with her legs to her side, the space on the stone more comfortable for her to eat.

“And that was all? Nothing about her intentions? Or their history?” Ornela glanced to Zhiqi in confusion and Daenerys tried to translate it with the limited vocabulary available in Dothraki.

The women both shook their heads. “He say she _too_ smart,” Zhiqi offered for context.

“Did he?” Daenerys raised an eyebrow at that. Such a small word put quite the different spin on his meaning. They were still at odds. She had to wonder if her relationship with Jon was continuing to be a point of contention with his family, if that was what he had meant when she’d confronted him. The scene of the war council was fresh in her mind again, the way that Jon had coddled his sister when she had verbalized her discontent, openly disputing his order much in the same way he had disputed Daenerys’s. So when, then? When did Jon and his sister argue privately? And where?

 _It was taken from us, and we took it back. And we said we'd never bow to anyone else again._ She wondered once more who ‘ _we’_ was meant to be in Sansa Starks’ declaration. All of the North, or merely her and Jon? Perhaps she was cross with him for swearing fealty to a queen. Perhaps Sansa had wanted the North for herself.

The little one had seemed alright. And the brother. Well, he was an odd one, and made her feel strange, the way he looked at her as if he knew something about her life which she was not privy to, but otherwise, seemed harmless enough. Did they take issue in Jon’s relationship with her as well? She thought of their closeness, such that Jon allowed his sisters in his chambers as he bathed, even. _Families are complicated_ , Sansa had said, and it had felt like another dig at her, as everyone knew she hadn’t had much of one. However, she did understand more than most that brothers and sisters were definitely complicated, and it appeared to be the case with Sansa Stark and her half-brother as well. But Daenerys had hoped that Jon could become a family to her, and had wanted to be accepted as more than a queen by the Starks. It ate at her that they seemed to distrust her. What had she ever done to them to deserve such suspicion of her character? Other than come to save them from certain death. It felt like a slap in the face.

“He look sad,” Ornela noted, and Zhiqui enthusiastically nodded her head in agreement.

“Is it a different sad?” she asked, recalling Jon’s face in the library. “Or the kind he usually wears?”

“He asked about you, Your Grace. A moment ago in the courtyard.”

Dany looked up with the girls to see Missandei stroll quietly into the solar, slipping her gloves off her hands. Her friend smiled and genuflected in her direction as she entered.

“What did he want to know?” she asked in a rush as she leaned forward in her chair, eager to hear of his interest.

Missandei came over and sat in the chair across from her by the hearth. “He wanted to make sure you were not feeling poorly, as he was aware you had asked to take your supper in your chambers again. And he expressed his apologies that he and his family could not entertain you in a more befitting and grand style, as there were more people coming into the protection of the castle walls every day and food was a growing concern. I think he is worried about you, Your Grace. He seemed quite chastened.”

“Chastened, you say?” By whom, she wondered.

“Yes. As though he understands there is a marked change in his attention to you and felt bad for it. Sometimes, the Warden of the North bears such shame in his eyes. What do you suppose is the origin for it? The people here don’t seem to think ill of him for being a bastard. Quite the contrary.”

“I don’t know,” she answered, although she was certainly aware that Jon had much shame in him, and yet most of it unwarranted, she felt. “But he was a bit overzealous the other day. Perhaps that had something to do with it.” She paused, not really believing that Jon was still shamed by his objections during the war council. There was something else.

“It is plain that he misses the private time the two of you have shared,” Missandei offered with a small smile, and Dany felt comforted by the thought. “And he wanted me to tell you that he would be by to see you, if you were agreeable to it.”

She sat up straighter. “Of course I would be agreeable. Did he say when he meant to call on me?”

“No, Your Grace, but I think he planned on some time this evening. He was on his way to see one of his sisters when he stopped to speak with me.”

“Do you know which one?” She felt her nerves screw tighter, already knowing which sister she would prefer Jon be spending his evening with prior to seeing her.

“I believe it was Lady Arya, as he was meeting her at the forge, he said.”

“I see. Good.” She breathed out a sigh of relief.

Missandei looked at the untouched plate and tilted her head. “You should eat, Your Grace. You need your strength.”

“Its mutton,” she said, no further explanation needed.

Missandei frowned. “I can go and ask for something else in the kitchens, if you would like. I am sure there is someone who would be willing to speak to the Lady Sansa for me, on your behalf.”

“Absolutely not. Nothing need be brought to Lady Stark’s attention where my appetite is concerned. I’m not particularly hungry, anyway.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

Dany leaned back. “It has not escaped my notice how the Northerners look upon you and the Unsullied,” she said with some bite. “They are used to their same faces, it seems, and do not appear to be very warm to _outsiders_.” People who did not look like them, Dany thought to herself.

“But their former king, he is not like that,” Missandei reminded her. “Nor is Ser Davos, even though he is not from here. Perhaps it is not the case for all Northerners. Lady Arya seems very curious about us as well. I can hear in her speech that she has been in the East. There are inflections that suggest she has spent some time in Braavos.”

“Do you think?” That was interesting to know. Both Zhiqi and Ornela had found the girl fascinating.

“I’m quite sure,” Missandei replied.

“And Jon … did he say anything else?”

“No, You Grace. Only that he would speak with you tonight.”

Daenerys put her hands to her cheeks, feeling them warm. “All right then,” she said, careful not to get too gleeful about it. Her body missed his, and she felt it in every part of her still, an ache between her legs that had been growing more insistent each day without him. “Perhaps I can take a bath before then.”

“I will see to it at once, Your Grace.”

* * *

Missandei was pinning up her last plait when they heard the knock. Dany whipped her head in its direction.

“Yes?” she called, feeling almost breathless.

“It’s Jon,” she heard on the other side and her body started to vibrate with the promise of intimacy he might be bringing her. She glanced up to Missanei who instantly stopped with her hair and turned to make way to the door. Zhiqi and Ornela had already been dismissed to their chamber.

Missandei opened it partially as Dany stood up in wait.

“Good evening, my lord,” Missandei expressed before stepping aside to let Jon in.

Jon smiled at her then immediately turned to Dany and bent his head towards her. He was in his bluish coat and wore his furred cloak, thick gloves on his hands – hands that she found herself staring at in longing.

“Your Grace. I hope I didn’t disturb you. I informed Missandei that I wanted to come by, to speak with you if you’re up for it.”

“Of course I am up for it,” she said with a beaming smile, feeling a girlish earnestness for a moment. “You know how much I appreciate our talks.”

Jon opened his mouth to speak and then eyed Missandei. “I – would you be interested in going for a walk with me?”

“Going for a walk?” She heard the surprise in her echoing of his request.

“Yes. The moon is bright tonight. I thought, perhaps, we could check on Drogon and Rhaegal, if you would like.”

It took her but a moment to adjust to the expectation. “Lead the way, my lord,” she said as she walked forward. She looked to Missandei who nodded and went to collect the furs to wrap her shoulders.

It was when they were halfway down the stairs that Jon finally spoke.

“I wanted to apologize again about the other day,” he said softly, his eyes cast to the steps as they slowly descended with her arm in his. “I thought about what you said, and I think you stated your case for the Dothraki leading the charge very well. I appreciate that you even took the time to give me such an understanding of your people. You didn’t have to do that, and I thank you again for allowing me to give my side of it.”

“I do let my advisors say their piece,” she said. “Jorah would be the first to tell you that. But you understand there is a difference to the way we speak with each other publicly to the way we do privately.”

“Aye, I do. It was a moment of panic, I fear. The dead get closer. We still haven’t heard anything about the Umbers. More people are streaming into the castle. I need all of our plans to be effective.”

“We both do,” she said. “And they will. Having you ride Rhaegal during their attack is only going to make it more likely we will persevere and win.”

“It is … a wondrous thing,” he said with some reverence, as they made their way down the next staircase. “Being on Rhaegal’s back, seeing the country below. I have a special appreciation for how you must come to battle. To see it from that perspective, it gives a proper context, how small we are in these squabbles with each other.”

“I suppose,” she said, not quite seeing it that way.

“I keep going back to what happened before, review my mistakes,” Jon said, his voice still gruff. “The way that the Night King drew us in, waited until your child was left open to attack. We need to be much more cautious this time, to be sure that it won’t happen again. I don’t want …” she saw him struggle as he searched for the words, “I fear that he might attempt to take Drogon down while you’re with him.” They had reached the bottom floor and he stared into her eyes. “I can’t let that happen.”

Daenerys felt her breath catch and her heart leap, to see him so worried for her. “It won’t,” she assured him, meaning it. “Drogon and I escaped his harpoon once already. We are their protection, there to guide them, and watch out for them as they command the skies. Viserion was on his own. I know you’ve been working hard with Rhaegal. I’ve felt it. And we are prepared for the Night King this time.” She put her hand to his cheek, the red leather of her gloves pressed against the black of his beard. “We will watch out for each other,” she told him.

He cast his gaze over her, held her wrist where she touched his face. “You are so calm. While I feel … terrified, and each day it grows worse. How do you do it?”

“Because I know the future, my love. I know we will be victorious here. And then I will take the throne, and the world will be at peace, finally.” She had dreamt of it for too long. Her destiny was written in her very blood, pumping through her veins and into her heart. No king would bring her down. Not even a king who ruled death. Jon took her hand in his and laced their fingers together over their gloves, turning them to lead them outside.

“I have had people tell me of their visions, have suggested that I … that we have some kind of role in this,” he said as they walked into the chilled air outside. “And I have tried to take that as a call for action. Do you feel that, Dany? That we are fated to end up where we do? Do you believe in visions?”

“I do. I told you of the vision I had of my children being born. I knew I would not burn in that fire. And I didn’t. Just as I knew with the _khals_. Sometimes, we just know a thing, and by feeling it so deeply, we make it happen, will it into the world.” She disentangled their hands and slipped an arm through his, holding it with both hands one over the other as they strolled behind the black behemoth shadow of a trebuchet. “It is what brought you to me.”

Jon stopped them and searched her eyes. “You believe that?”

“Jon, there is a reason that you and I came together. That we …” and she hesitated as she realized how fragile it all was, what they were to each other. “That we fell in love,” she finished softly, needing to hear it spoken but keeping her voice low enough for just them. “And such a love will pull us through this.”

He took her words in with a heavy contemplation. She sensed the pain behind his somber exterior and wanted to soothe him, if only he would confide in her.

“You speak with such conviction, Dany,” he replied in the same quiet breath. “I want to believe everything you say.”

“There is nothing to keep you from doing so,” she said, a gentle amusement creeping into her tone. She squeezed his arm and dandled it sweetly, wanting to see that solemn countenance be infused with some joy, wanted to see his smile dazzle her. She saw his face from that night on the ship, when they had made their promises to each other. He was hers, and she was his, and that couldn’t have tempered so soon, even in the coldness of this vast place.

They walked up towards the godswood, Jon leading her there. It was a magical place, she thought, the red leaves still vivid in the dark, like smears of drying blood upon a midnight canvas.

“This is my family’s place of worship,” he said. “Where we would pray to the Old Gods. It’s been here for over a thousand years.” He looked at her with such tenderness. “I wanted to bring you here. I don’t know why I mentioned your children. I suppose I wanted to find an excuse to get you out here and I didn’t know if… if you would even want to speak with me, to be honest. I haven’t been very attentive, I know.”

“Something is upsetting you,” she said in understanding. “I see you wrestle with it. I know it’s not just your family. But you don’t have to take it on alone. You can talk to me, Jon. We can work it out _together_ ,” she reminded him. That he hadn’t come to her in his need for pain, hadn't asked her to help him drown out those voices which plagued him by having her physically drive them out, had suggested to her that she had been the root of his trouble. Had he seen a side to her that he hadn’t liked? She’d had to be strong, had to make sure that his people understood men like Jaime Lannister didn’t get to drive their swords into the backs of her family and not suffer for it. Had Jon found her too hard? Not soft enough to be the woman he desired? She had been plagued, too, the sudden rush of self-doubt bringing her back to her youth when she had been presented to a horse lord from the great grass sea.

They came up to the trunk of the great heart tree and Dany saw the face that had been carved in its bark, its expression one of surrender. She glanced up at Jon and studied him, the way his eyes closed, his lashes dark strokes as they appeared to rest on his cheeks. He looked peaceful for a moment, and she stood and listened with him as the wind rushed into the leaves, like the swell from the ocean, and then a cry from one of her children – Drogon, she knew – pierced the air and the wind fluttered the fur at his neck, tousled his hair that wasn’t trapped by his knot. She stood here in witness with him, and felt a deep contentment. When he spoke, she felt that deep rumble of his voice between her legs.

“Aye, I have wrestled with it, you’re right. But you are the queen. I should not have to keep troubling you with my problems. They are … they shouldn’t have to concern you. I wish they didn’t.” He opened his eyes, so full of sadness that it sometimes crushed Dany’s heart to see the weight of it there. He put his hand to her face, stretched his fingers until one curled around her ear, his thumb stroking down her throat. She tipped her head back to allow him to explore her.

“Would you have come if I didn’t … if I didn’t love you?” he asked her, the dark of his eyes glossy and wet.

“I came because _I_ love _you_ ,” she corrected. “But also because I know it was the right thing to do. I would never leave you to this on your own. Never.” And she wanted him so fiercely in that moment. Sliding her hand up behind his neck while he held her, Daenerys dragged him down to her, lifting her heels so she could reach his lips. She kissed him, and Jon was kissing her back with such softness, she felt she might shimmer with the leaves as they twinkled under the moon’s benevolent light, from red to gold to blue and back again, a tremulous shiver down the center of her. She brought her other hand up and held him to her as their kiss deepened, but then just as her desire was full upon her, swamping her with flames in her breasts and her loins, Jon pulled away. His eyes widened and then he took a great breath.

“We should head back,” he told her grimly, breaking the spell.

“Did you need to tell me something, Jon?”

He took another long sigh. “Not tonight, Dany. Can we just walk together without talking? Would that be alright?”

She cocked her head to see such earnestness in him, so like a boy. “Of course,” she said. “Take my hand.”

Dany held it out and he gripped it in his, and she saw him struggle with his emotions again. “Thank you,” he said thickly, and they started the walk back to the castle. She heard the wind rustle the leaves behind them, like the din of million whispers bidding them farewell.

* * *

“Are we sure about this?”

Dany darted a glance between Tyrion and Varys as they stood before her, both appearing grave. “Was it from Jon’s brother? Another one of his visions?”

“No, your Grace. A party of mostly Night’s Watch brothers and wildlings arrived an hour ago. The survivors of both Castle Black and Eastwatch-by-the-Sea had somehow managed to meet up at Last Hearth. The dead had already made their way through the stronghold, the Umber boy confirmed to be one of them before he was burned. The army is close at hand. Lord Jon has informed us that they will be here before the morning. He’s asked that a few of us convene in his office after everyone’s had their morning meal.”

“They’ve been here an hour? Why wasn’t I told at once?” she admonished.

“You were sleeping still and there is nothing to be done for now,” Varys chimed in. “The Warden of the North knows these men. Tormund Giantsbane was one of them, as well as the current Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. They have given him their reports and Ser Davos has gone to alert all those that will be present at the council.”

She let Zhiqi finish the last touches of the plaits wrapped in a circle at the back of her head as she stood in the center of her chamber, Ornela tweaking the dragon chain that lay diagonally across her coat. She was eager to get to Library Tower, where she knew Jon would be waiting.

“And who will be at this emergency meeting?” she asked, avoiding Tyrion’s eyes.

“For now, Jon Snow will have both of his sisters there, and he’s asked for you and for me, and for Ser Jorah.” Tyrion shot a guilty look towards Varys.

“What about everyone else?”

“He’ll hold the final war council late this afternoon,” Varys said. “This briefing is for you. He wants to make sure you have all the information necessary before the rest of them congregate.”

“All right then. Let’s be on our way.”

When she and Tyrion arrived at Jon’s chambers, instead of the library, Ser Jorah was there waiting with Jon’s younger sister. They both turned towards her, a dour look on Lady Arya’s face.

“I just found out,” she said immediately as she came up to wait with them. “Where’s Jon?”

“He’s inside,” Arya said tightly, her hands at her back as usual. “He’ll be out in a –”

“It doesn’t matter,” she heard Jon saying as the door to his office swung open. When he turned his head, she saw his eyes widen, and he blinked back at her as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Oh. Your grace, you’re here. Please come in.” Jon stepped aside and instantly, Daenerys saw the Lady Sansa standing at attention in his office already, her shoulders pulled back and her head high, the dress she wore her coat of armor. As Dany moved into the room, she glanced at the chain Sansa wore across her chest and then snapped her eyes at Jon as he followed them all in. His eyes were cast to his table, his fists pressed to the top of the wood as he leaned over it to speak with them.

“You’ve all heard, then, that the Umbers are gone, no longer a force for our side. Ned Umber was … he was butchered along with his people. Edd Tollett is the Lord Commander and a man I call my friend. He said they rode down from Castle Black but once they found Tormund and Ser Beric at Last Hearth, they had to take their horses off the Kingsroad and go around the host. Doubled up on the horses, they were moving at half their speed with the snow upon us. So the Army of the Dead is less than a day behind them.”

“You expect they’ll be here before the dawn, don’t you?” she said to Jon, the horror of what was coming landing in the pit of her stomach. The sisters both watched their brother as he nodded, his mouth screwed up tightly once he finally looked up from his maps.

“I do, Your Grace. It is what I feared, that we will fight them in darkness. But there’s something more.”

“Wonderful,” Tyrion groaned. “Of course there is.”

“The Night King bears us a message,” Jon said. He glanced at each of them, but avoided looking at Dany. “A spiral of severed limbs around the boy. We’ve seen it before.” Then his eyes flashed to hers, and she saw his resolve. “I showed you the symbol, Your Grace. On Dragonstone. Bran thinks it has been a taunt to the Children of the Forest over centuries, a perversion of their sacred signs. But the Night King is goading us this time. He means to play with us.” Then his eyes shifted to Sansa and something passed between them. Daenerys didn’t know what it meant, but there was an acknowledgement there. “We need to make sure he doesn’t engage us before we’re ready.”

“What should we watch for?” Ser Jorah asked.

“You’ll be on the ground, Ser Jorah, with your hands full. If you can push back the first wave with the Dothraki, then we might get him to show himself early, to strike from the air. But … I don’t think that’s likely.”

Dany felt a shot of fear seize her as she considered the real possibility that Jorah would not survive their charge. But she couldn’t dwell on it, had to put her mind on the plan at hand. If it took her and Jon rooting out the Night King to destroy him, then she would put all of her energy into making it happen.

“Have you spoken to your brother about the Night King’s intentions?” she wondered aloud. Jon looked up at her and then at each of his sisters. She thought about Jon’s questions on prophecies and visions and wondered if he had any doubts about his brother’s reach.

“What do you mean? His plans once he gets here?”

“Well, wasn’t Bran giving us information at one point? He saw the Night King with my child, when he breached the Wall. What else has he been able to see in all this time since? Did he not see this attack on Last Hearth?” It seemed that their source was inconsistent.

“My brother is in the godswood,” Lady Sansa said, rather sharply. “He’s been there every day, no matter the freezing temperatures, putting his health in decline in order to keep track of their progress. But he’s not a spyglass. He says the Night King can spot him on occasion and has had to watch carefully from a distance.”

“So, that would be a no?” She raised an eyebrow to the young woman, but her expression had gone stony. Jon’s gaze remained firmly fixed on the table, while Lady Arya sneaked a glance at her sister, a frown on her face. Dany looked to Tyrion who cleared his throat at her prompt.

“I think we can all agree that there’s not much else we can do now. We’ve prepared for this battle all that we can. Our plans have been set in motion. We will speed along the supply line and make sure all weapons and artillery are in place before it grows dark, and that everyone understands their positions on the field and in the castle once the alarm has been sounded. I suggest we gather the others before supper. Not that anyone will have an appetite tonight, but let’s allow us all some time for contemplation and to be with each other before the dead arrive. This could be our last night on this earth.”

“That’s cheery,” Arya quipped under her breath.

“Well … it’s not as if your half-brother did any better,” Tyrion added, waving a hand to Jon.

“Don’t call him that,” she snapped back. “He’s my _brother_.” Oddly, she shot her eyes sideways to where her sister stood, before glowering at Tyrion again.

Tyrion appeared chastened. “Of course. Apologies. And what does your _brother_ think we should do any different with this … grisly provocation from the Night King?”

But Jon looked flummoxed and he shrugged. “I don’t know. But her Grace should have the information. I don’t exactly want to spread the details of what’s happened to the Umbers right before the dead attack. The people need some hope.”

“We do,” Tyrion agreed. “Let us drink to that.” He looked around the tidy space of Jon’s office and frowned. “Snow, the lack of wine in these quarters is a problem.”

“You can have some later,” Dany said. “Right now, let’s get to work.”

Jon stood up and eyed Daenerys with a small smile and she smiled back. She remembered their time the night before and wished to spend some time with him before it was too late, eager for everyone else to leave. As they filed out of the small room, Dany made to move around the table to his side when she saw Sansa Stark snake her hand around her brother’s wrist.

“Jon. A moment, please.”

She stood awkwardly as Jon turned and nodded to his sister. He then darted a glance at Dany, his eyes trying to impart some apology before he nodded to her as well. “Your Grace. Thank you for coming. I will find you later if I have more news.”

“Of course. Please do.”

Dany made her way to the door, her back stiff and her chin high as she left them there.

* * *

It was after the council had met, after they had drifted off to find solace in each other’s company, that Daenerys went for a walk through the Keep. She hoped to find Jon in his chambers, even considered that they might find comfort in each other’s bodies before the dead swarmed them. She wanted to live and she wanted Jon to live with her and in her. She pressed her hands to her belly, feeling it as flat as before. The sadness that always came with the realization that she could not bring any more life into the world was quickly batted away. There was no time for it. Only after they survived this would Dany mourn.

She found Jon’s apartments and knocked on his bedchamber. There was the dread that she would be faced with Sansa Stark at home in her brother’s rooms again. Jon had immediately walked away from her when they’d ended the war council, as he’d been doing the past fortnight, and she’d felt a plummeting sensation that his sister had said something to promote his skittishness. It was a strange feeling to have, that Jon’s family would spark some jealousy in her. Perhaps it was the constant example they set, seeing how they cared for each other and protected each other so fiercely. The way Jon’s sisters stood as his guards on either side of him always, as if they would cut down anyone who attempted to do their brother harm. She tried to imagine Viserys doing that for her. But she couldn’t see it _. I would let his whole tribe fuck you. All forty thousand men and their horses too, if that’s what it took._

Dany shook off the cold that entered her and knocked on the door again, but there was no answer. She tried to push open the door but it was locked. She stepped back.

And almost fell into the direwolf behind her.

“Oh!” She jolted. The animal was always so quiet, she never knew when he would appear. The direwolf looked in her eyes for a brief moment and Daenerys felt its intelligence as it considered her, much the same way her children possessed. “Ghost?” she said to the beast. “Do you know where Jon is?”

It bent its great head and touched its snout to her arm, right above the cuff. Instinctively, she went to scratch its head, the way she used to with Drogon when he was small enough to sit in her lap. But the wolf pulled away and started to trot in the other direction. She was disappointed.

Then it stopped. It looked back at her, and she understood Ghost was summoning her. Dany walked towards it and then the animal resumed its jaunt, loping towards the stairs to make its descent. She followed.

The beast took her outside. There were still groups huddled together about as they ate piping hot stew, a certain fatalism in the air, while others continued to check their arms at every post, dragonglass spears and arrows propped in their baskets. No one minded Ghost, or her for that matter, and she kept on through the courtyard as the animal stayed at a pace that enabled her to keep up, looking back at her every now and again to make sure she was still there.

When they arrived at the crypt doors, Jon’s direwolf stopped and turned to wait for her. The doors were open, some women and their young children going in and out. The women pulled their children closer as they noticed the wolf, but once Dany came to the doorway, Ghost looked inside once before trotting away again. Dany stared after it for a second before descending the steps. She understood that Jon was here, that Ghost had brought her to him.

Torches were lit along the way, and she saw clusters of the women folk near the bottom of the stairs. She smiled down at them, but not all smiled back. Dany kept walking, following the path that took her deep below, past the older coffins and down the hall where the former Stark kings of history stood ten feet tall to either side of her. She took a moment to appreciate them all, warming to the notion that Jon had the blood of his ancestors running through his veins, even if they did not grant him their name. Once she took the throne, Dany would be sure to legitimize him, she decided, make him the thing he had most wanted to be – a Stark. There would be a celebration.

It was cool down here, a chilled air that seeped from the walls and up from the dirt, but the fires in the braziers kept her path clear and she followed farther still until she entered the family’s catacombs. There was Jon, up ahead, standing in prayer, perhaps, the shelves of the stone walls beside him dripping with wax from the medley of candles.

She came up to him on soft steps but stopped when Jon heard her, and waited to see if he wanted her here. He turned to give her a small smile and, heartened, she came closer. Daenerys had thought he had come to visit his father, as she’d heard from Varys that Jon came down here frequently to stand before the great man. But as she came up to wrap her arms into his, she saw that it was a woman Jon stood before, a candle lit in her hand. The stone was carved into a beseeching face, a tender beauty in the likeness, and a great stone direwolf stood next to her. Daenerys curled herself against his back, her chin on his shoulder, feeling the closeness that had escaped them since the day they had ridden through the gates.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

Jon kept his eyes on the statue and drew in a breath. “Lyanna Stark.”

The name was familiar to her, of course. She glanced to Jon, to see if he held any anger at what had been done to her by Dany's own brother. But that wasn’t Jon. She had never known Rhaegar, but she remembered the stories Ser Barristan had so graciously shared with her. It seemed incomprehensible that the same man Ser Barristan had loved would have done such a thing.

“My brother, Rhaegar,” she said, bringing the unspoken to the fore. “Everyone told me he was decent and kind. He liked to sing. Gave money to poor children. And he raped her.” She didn’t understand how such two opposing natures could be contained in one person, that a man so kind to some could bring terror to others.

“He didn’t,” Jon said, surprising her. She took in his face and Jon looked so sure. “He loved her.”

A frisson of fear ran up her back at the words, she didn’t know why, but then Jon unhooked them, turning to lock eyes with her.

“They were married in secret. After Rhaegar fell on the Trident, she had a son. Robert would have murdered the baby if he ever found out, and Lyanna knew it. So the last thing she did,” he spoke gravely, imparting a terrible truth, “as she bled to death on her birthing bed, was to give the boy to her brother – Ned Stark. To raise as his bastard.”

The fear spread through her the more he spoke, an understanding taking root in her belly, twisting her insides. She didn’t want to hear this. Suddenly, she saw Jon on the back of Rhaegal, named for her brother, and the queries that had been stifled to the back of her mind – the curious fact that only Jon had ever mounted one of her children to ride them, that they were drawn to him – began to surface like a pot bubbling over the fire.

“My name … my real name –” _no, no, no, no_ , went the shout in her head. “Is Aegon Targaryen.”

It knocked her back. This couldn’t be true. She was the last Targaryen, and she was all alone, she’d built her life around this very fact. Everything she’d gone through had brought her to this understanding. That the throne had been waiting for _her_.

“That’s impossible,” she said, her breath gone from her lungs.

“I wish it were.” Jon seemed to remain steadfast in his insistence. But he had to be mistaken. Why else would she have suffered and bled for this, if it hadn’t been her destiny?

“Who told you this?” Was it Varys? Had one of his spies spread lies about Jon?

“Bran. He saw it.”

“He _saw_ it?” She didn’t believe it. And when did the boy decide what to see and what to ignore? He hadn’t even been able to see the Army of the Dead half a step away from their gates.

“And Samwell confirmed it,” Jon shot back. “He read about their marriage at the Citadel without even knowing what it meant.”

It all started to sound a little incredulous, a fabulous story upheld by two people who were only loyal to Jon, one of whom held a grudge against her. “A secret no one in the world knew except your brother and your best friend. Doesn't that seem strange to you?”

“It’s true, Dany. I know it.” Jon was adamant, and she realized that this had been it, this had been why he’d avoided her, wouldn’t talk to her. Because he believed it. And yet, he didn’t look happy about it at all. She explained to him.

“If it were true, it would make you the last _male_ heir of House Targaryen,” she stated with vehemence. He stared at her, with those wounded eyes, as if he hadn’t a clue of the full audacity that such a revelation would bring were this to sweep the kingdoms. “You'd have a claim to the Iron Throne.” And she would be pushed aside.

The years she’d spent in Viserys’s shadow, the selling of her body to buy her brother an army, the terror of her wedding night, the jeers from merchants and nobles as she struggled to find support, her children being stolen from her, Viserion taken from her, shot down from the sky, her husband taken from her, her son ripped from her womb – all of it had brought her here, where she stood, literally about to fight _for_ the seven kingdoms, to save them all, to gain her the throne, the one thing that had driven her, that had kept her going. And it had been for _nothing?_ Another man to step in and change the course of her life? This couldn’t be happening. Why would he do this to her?

But Jon barely reacted. He only looked at her with his sad eyes, taken aback by her words. She wanted to slap him. To take his beloved belt and see his flesh stripped raw. Why had he even brought her here?

He looked as if he was about to say something, but then they heard it. Up the stairs, and from the outside, the horns began to blow.

The dead had arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue credited to Bryan Cogman from 8x02 "A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms", as well as Benioff & Weiss for 6x09.
> 
> My thanks to firesign and to mimreads for their wonderful notes and insight into this chapter.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my thanks to mimreads and firesign for taking a look at this chapter and offering their great insights and edits.
> 
> Dialogue here from 8x04, The Last Of the Starks, courtesy of Benioff and Weiss. Hoo boy, rewatching that one, its like four episodes in a single hour, crazy stuff. It's going to take me several more chapters to get through it all.
> 
> Like Beyond The Wall, I have watched The Long Night many times since it aired and ... I don't hate it. In fact, I kind of love it. Dany crying over Jorah while Drogon curls around them gets me EVERY time. Theon and Bran! I sob my eyes out at "You're a good man" and I didn't even _like_ Theon, lol. And I loved the dragon fight. That was some good shit. AND THE SCORE. Ramin outdid himself. The stuff I didn't love, well, that's why we're here. Anyway, here there will be some fallout.
> 
> tw: suicidal ideation and general bad thoughts

**.xxxvii**

Smoke rose above the round tops of the castle’s towers in grey billowing clouds. The ground was covered in a fine dust the color of ash, but Daenerys knew it wasn’t from the fires – it was from the bodies of the long dead, now disintegrated across the fields.

She walked in a daze.

Drogon sat guard over Jorah while she went to gather the other survivors. She had cradled him for as long as she could, letting her grief wash over her, staring into the still face of the man who had guided her and protected her. Who had seen something worthy in her before she’d even been able to find it in herself. What would she do without him? Who would be true to her?

Daenerys scanned the walls, thinking of Jon. Had he lived? People lumbered about in the same daze as her but she didn’t recognize their battered faces. Her heart felt torn in two. Part of her was anxious to find him unharmed, while another, sober, calculating part of her mind wondered if her problem had been solved. A second later, she chastised herself for the thought. No matter the powder keg he’d delivered to her, she still loved him. Her steps were surer as she resolved to locate him.

Jon had gone to find Bran in the godswood, and she had urged him on, before the dead had knocked her off Drogon, had crawled over her child and she’d heard his pitiful screams while he’d labored to take flight in an attempt to shake them loose. And when she’d thought she would face the dead alone, Jorah had appeared to save her. Daenerys shook her head, she couldn’t think about that right now. She needed to be strong, to find her Hand and to begin the work of seeing to the wounded and their dead. She looked down and saw the faces of those who had fought valiantly but had not made it through – many of them her Unsullied, the men now lying with their eyes wide open, no longer blue.

“Daenerys, are you all right?”

A stilted voice came from her left and she turned towards it, and there was a moment’s pause before she realized that it was Grey Worm who was staring at her in dismay. He’d survived. She was so relieved, and she put her hands out to him, to hold his flesh and be assured he was real.

“Yes,” she managed to get out, her own voice sounded strange to her ears. She looked behind her to see that Drogon was lifting off. “Jorah.”

“I will take care of Jorah the Andal. But I must bring Daenerys Stormborn to her people first. Let me help you.”

So she allowed it. Daenerys curled her arms around his, let her weight fall against him before she was able to stand upright, to keep walking past the bodies, so many of them, covered with the film of the Night King’s army.

“What happened, Torgo Nudho? They all just … collapsed.” She remembered Jon’s words, the focal point of their mission. The Night King made them all. So who had destroyed the Night King? “Have you seen Jon?”

“They are inside the gates. I take you there, my queen.”

The gates had been smashed open, what remained of its warped wood sagging at its joints, and more people streamed out into the field, those who weren’t injured, as they assessed the damage. Some glanced at her but did not stop, and as she and Grey Worm stepped inside the castle walls she heard the quiet weeping of the smallfolk collecting their dead. Men were bringing out cots filled with bodies to the center of the courtyard and Daenerys began to see the devastation as the piles mounted. They would have to build a massive pyre to burn them all. A cry from Rhaegal screeched overhead and as Dany lifted her eyes to view the skies she saw the First Keep had been caved in on one side of its tower. One of the covered walkways had been crushed and great chunks of wood lay splintered below. Blue dust shimmered over the ground, as if it were alive, pulsing, fragments slowly fading away, and the sun shone down and she felt alive, too. The people had survived and her along with them. It meant something. Dictated her path forward.

A sudden, bone-chilling scream rang through the air and Daenerys and everyone around her froze, all eyes turning towards the godswood. She saw Jon, finally, and there he stood with his sister, halfway between Daenerys and the entrance to their sacred trees. He held the sister, his arms about her waist as her cries grew in intensity, the body of Theon Greyjoy brought before them on a cot held between two men. Sansa Stark reached for Theon and her arms stretched towards him like those for a lover, her mouth a wide and gaping maw full of pain and grief, and the sound of it cut deep through Daenerys as she felt it in her body, that Jorah was gone from this world and she would never lay eyes on him again, would never hear his soft and assuring Northern burr telling her the way forward. Tears sprang to her eyes, as they all quailed in the face of Sansa’s grief, her display so raw and unconstrained, an open wound that wanted everyone to see how it bled, and Jon was holding her, pulling her away as she sobbed in his arms, Sansa squeezing him tight as if her brother was all that kept her standing. Perhaps he was, for in the next second, Jon was lifting her with his arm under her legs, and he said something to the two men as he carried his sister away, she still wailing loudly as she wrapped her hands around Jon’s neck and lay her head to his shoulder, something so natural about it yet disturbing Daenerys as she continued to watch them.

Jon met her eyes, and they were bright and in shock, but he acknowledged her with a nod just once before his younger sister came running up behind them, pushing her brother in his chair, and he turned to face them, relief in his features, blood still crusted down the side of his cheek. There they were, the Starks of Winterfell, the little family that had made it through this quick and ugly war, over in a night, and she stood apart from them, with the knowledge that Jon was part of her family, too. What should she do about it? The thought began as a soft, beating question reverberating throughout her insides, in the tissue of her muscle and her organs – _what will they say? What will they say?_ Something inside her wanted Jon’s comfort, too. Wanted him to come to her, before all of them, everyone that was breathing and still standing, and show them that he loved her, that he kneeled to her, that he believed in her. Wanted him to wrap his arms around her the way he was doing for his sister now. Grey Worm urged her forward, and Daenerys stumbled along, unable to take her eyes off of them as she was guided to the Great Hall where no doubt Tyrion awaited her.

* * *

“Here you are. Take some of this, and lie back. You need to rest.”

Sansa sat in her bed and took the cup Jon handed her with a weary compliance. Her grief had wrung her dry and she could cry no more, although there was still a thick, obliterating sorrow that shrouded her, as heavy as the cloak she’d made for Jon. She pressed her hands over his, making him hold the cup as she drank from it, taking as much comfort from her brother’s presence as she could. A quiet gratitude had beat within her sadness – the news that Jon was spared, that he was alive, was a prayer made flesh – and she understood with another slice into her heart that she had made a pact with the gods. Theon had been taken so that Jon would survive. The guilt of it flooded her again, and she drank all the contents of the cup down until she swallowed the dregs, its taste as bitter as her soul.

“It’ll help you sleep. You’ll feel better when you wake.”

“Jon, can you stay with me for a bit?” She wanted him to lay down with her, the way they did the last time they were together, the way she lay with Theon, where she had held them in her arms. She wanted the love inside her, burning through her flesh, to be imprinted upon him, a talisman to guard him and protect him. This wouldn’t be the end of the fighting for Jon.

“Sansa,” he said, with that deep huskiness that always managed to soothe her. “I have to go. There is so much work still to be done. We have many pyres to erect and even more bodies to burn. My men need me.”

“I need you, too,” she said, her grip tight around his arm. Theon’s words came back to her, before he left her to take his men to the godswood. _Jon will protect you. He’ll fight for you till the end. And I’ll protect Bran. I swear to you._ But Jon hadn’t been there when the dead came alive in the tombs and she’d thought her final moments would end with Tyrion, the irony landing in her with some strange amusement at it all. What had happened to Jon upon the dragon’s back? It had been Arya who had slain that demon after a night of slaughter, and she had worried that Jon had been lost with them when she came above into the light of the dawn. She had been so relieved when she’d seen him stumbling over to her, blood trickling down the side of his face, and she had dropped to her knees as he began to run.

He put his hand to her cheek now and she drew the heat from him into her body. “You’ll be fine. I’ll come back and check on you later. It’s going to take us all day. I told Arya to come sit with you when she’s done. She’s been helping with the dead.”

“I need to be there as well. Maester Wolkan has so many wounded to tend to and he needs help.”

But Jon shushed her and brushed back her hair so sweetly. “No, Sansa, there are plenty of people to provide assistance. We’re taking it in shifts. Lady Brienne is there with Wolkan for now, as is Tyrion’s brother.”

“Ser Brienne,” she corrected. “She was made a knight by Jaime Lannister before the fighting began.” Tyrion had given her the news while they had waited in the crypts. “Where is Tyrion? Is he all right?”

Jon had taken a long breath. “Tyrion is with the queen. She lost,” and he cleared his throat tightly as he stared off to a space on the floor, “she lost Ser Jorah. She’s taking it hard.”

But Sansa didn’t care about the queen’s pain at the moment. She was too filled with her own. Drowsiness began to take hold of her, whatever had been in the tea starting to work, and she clutched Jon’s hand to her chest.

“Jon,” she whispered, the hush of the room making it feel like they were entirely alone in the world. “I was so worried for you.” She’d seen him overhead before Arya had sent her down to the crypts. He had been flying above them all, providing protection from the skies, but then so had the Night King. The blood on his cheek had been wiped away but the wound was still prominent, a dark scab left behind, and she wondered again how he had come through it all. They’d all felt the boom below as towers had toppled, as the beast had collided with the Keep. She glimpsed the damage when she’d come topside. There would be much to rebuild.

“I’m fine, Sansa.” His typical answer to everything. But there was something there in his eyes, before his features shuttered his emotions from her. She knew he was far from fine. None of them were fine at all. “Now get some sleep.” He tugged on a hank of her hair and she felt her grief flood her anew. She leaned up and pressed her lips to his. Jon let her, his body stiff against hers, and she curled her arms around his shoulders and back, squeezing him tighter as her lips bruised his. In her hazy thoughts, Sansa knew her brother would make her feel better. The grief inside her became its own beast, a great giant like the one that had broken through their gates, and it shoveled everything into its mouth, including Jon. She pressed her breasts against him but he gave her nothing back, just let her hold him and kiss him until the passion in her dwindled down, sputtering like a flame that fought to stay alight, until it was dampened and extinguished. Sansa pulled away from him, exhaustion tugging at her.

“You should get some sleep,” he said again, before standing up. “I’ll check on you later.”

Jon left her, closing the door quietly behind him. She lay back and closed her eyes and let the remedy of sleep take her over.

* * *

He sat watching.

There was much bustle in the Great Hall as the living came in and out to take some shelter and get a bite to eat, before making their way back outside again to help with the continued cleanup. It had been a long day already, as they’d mourned their dead with Jon leading them, many of them having but a few minutes respite between it all. Jon had been one of those who had not slept yet, pushing himself through yet another night to finish loading the fallen and then giving their memoriam once the sun had risen. Jon had not been seen since then, but as people congregated at the tables that had already been set, Bran knew the kitchens were busy, the servants who were left and many more besides preparing a feast for them all that evening. The hall was one of the few buildings that had not endured any damage, with so many keeps of the castle featuring gaping wounds as deep as any that their people had suffered. A small wisp of him felt his uselessness amidst the rabble, beyond merely his body being of little help. But the boy had resigned himself to their role at long last. A raven was an observer of human nature, after all. Watching was the most that they could offer now.

“Lord Brandon, how are you faring?”

Tyrion Lannister had come to join him by the great hearth. There was bereavement hanging in the man’s eyes, but also a certain amount of relief that his own family was safe. That his queen had survived.

“I am what I must be. But this body is unharmed if that is what you seek to know.”

“Ah, yes, that was the basic premise of my question. It appears mankind has persevered once again. And you continue to protect and house our memories and our history. Did you ever doubt it? Had you foreseen our victory?”

But he had foreseen many things, his dreams of King’s Landing growing stronger every day. Theon’s face entered his mind, and for a split second, he felt him as the boy had, saw the shame in Theon when he’d kicked away Ser Rodrik’s head replaced by acceptance in his eyes when Bran had told him he was a good man, embracing his final act of bravery to wash away the terrible stain of his sins. A cold chill took him over as he recalled the way it had felt to look into the face of the Night King when he had approached, to see it finally standing before him and not in a dream or from afar. It had been a close call.

“I saw the Night King’s whereabouts. Knew he would make it through to the godswood. But I saw his overconfidence, too. He did not consider Arya as a threat. He never even saw her coming.”

“I don’t think any of us did,” Tyrion commented with a wry smile. “And how did your sister manage it?”

“She knew where to strike.”

“Apparently,” he rejoined drolly. “But not before the dragon he rode did some extensive damage to your home. We’re lucky that the Great Keep was spared the worst of it and we’re moving some of the lords and ladies to its empty bedchambers, upon your brother’s orders. The guest house has been used to accommodate those wounded to give them some space to convalesce.”

“Of course,” Bran had noted flatly.

Sansa stepped into the hall, and those present sat up straighter upon seeing her. A few of Lady Mormont’s men came up to her to give their thanks for Jon’s words that morning, and she smiled warmly and let them speak their heart, holding their hands as they did. She had changed her leather shield for one covered in scales, the tufts of black shiny fabric glittering across the bodice of her dress and down its sleeves as a nod to her mother and her Tully roots. He knew the Blackfish had worn something similar on his vest, a living representation of their sigil.

“Your sister looks much better,” Tyrion said. His eyes were on her with much fondness beheld there. “I think she articulated succinctly and with great emotion how we all felt yesterday morning. But she is back to tending to her flock.”

An image came to Bran suddenly, of Sansa staring up in horror to the skies, a crown of wolves sitting atop her head.

“So she is,” he replied.

“And your brother? I haven’t seen him since his address to us all this morning. A beautiful eulogy, I might add. One that many here appreciated, not just Northerners. Will he be attending the feast tonight?”

“Yes, Jon would not miss doing his duty,” Bran stated easily. He had seen a glimpse of Jon, however, and knew the truth of it was far from being that simple. “He will accompany Daenerys and Sansa to share in everyone’s gratitude to be alive.”

“That is good news.” Tyrion smiled tightly. “The queen will be happy to hear of it.”

“Will she?”

Tyrion’s smile faltered as he considered Bran’s meaning.

“Yes, of course,” he insisted. “She has gone to see to her people. The Dothraki suffered heavy losses. As did her Unsullied. We need to take a counting of heads again, those souls in her armies who survived. But I expect there will be much revelry tonight,” he added with brightening eyes. “To live through such a fight is no small miracle.”

“Yes. A miracle,” Bran echoed. But the Three-Eyed Raven knew there were no such things.

“We must finish our talk,” Tyrion suggested with another small smile. “I thrilled to your adventures at our last sitting, and would love to hear the end of it, how you made it past the Night King’s attack on your cave.”

“I lived,” he offered dryly.

Tyrion nodded in amusement. “Well, that is a relief to discover. I was waiting in suspense to find out.”

But the truth of it was that Bran had not really lived at all. _You died in that cave_ , he heard Meera say as if it had just happened. While a tiny part of Bran was still to be found here, it was just his memories in the end. The sliver that remained hurting for Theon.

He flicked his eyes to Sansa, still making her way down the trestle tables as she spoke to each of the lords and ladies sharing a meal together. A movement near the end of the hearth drew his attention to the hallway leading into the great room. Arya stepped in the hall. She glanced to him first and nodded but once she noticed Sansa’s presence, she frowned and turned around, leaving as quickly and soundlessly as she’d come.

Bran sighed, the weariness pervasive in this weak body. He would need to talk to Jon. Truths had to come to light soon.

“I am glad you find my presence a comfort, Lord Tyrion,” he answered bloodlessly. There was little comfort to be found anywhere. Not if they knew what was still to come.

* * *

Arya lay back against her pillows staring at the ceiling, her thoughts on a multitude of impressions all at once as sleep refused to come. She was in her bedchamber, in her own bed, yet it felt foreign to her. The bed she grew up in was currently sagging with the weight of Gendry to the right of her, making the feathers in her mattress clump oddly in the center. Gendry, now a lord of Storms End – decreed by Daenerys at the feast hours earlier – had proposed marriage, as mad as that was, and it had seemed only fair that she lay with him again in the face of her rejection. What had propelled him to ask such a thing? She couldn’t fathom it. But she’d attempted to soften the blow with something that seemed to make him happy and, not eager to perform the act on sacks of feed this time, she had brought him to her room, the place where she had lain as a little girl and tried to imagine once the adventures her life would hold. As before, the act had been over fairly quickly. Arya had crawled on top of Gendry’s firm body, grinding herself against him, and he had moaned her name, gripping her by the hips, while she searched for that little thrill in the spot she sometimes found on her own.

Sex was supposed to make a girl into a woman, but Arya hadn’t felt like a girl in years, her transition into adulthood coming the day they cut off her father’s head. The act itself had felt momentarily interesting but nothing that she would swear by and commit herself to another for. She felt let down by its ordinariness. It hadn’t changed her at all. Not even the second time had summoned any difference in the way she saw the world, in the way she saw others. But there had to be something more to it. Her mind returned to the image of her brother and sister in an embrace, as it had so many times since she’d witnessed the scene, feeling beset by the picture of them kissing; Sansa so passionate.

The shock that had turned her blood cold as she’d slowly, imperceptibly crept back up the stairs on the toes of her boots, her eyes feeling huge, had forced her to move, made her shuffle behind the column just in time, as she heard them arguing and then Sansa was running up the stairs. The understanding that had come in that moment hadn’t gotten any easier with the crisis of the world ending averted. To know of their affair – their _incestuous_ affair – was too much for her to process. She wished she could talk about it with Bran, but this was not something that could simply be discussed as a matter of course, as though Jon and Sansa had suddenly developed an odd new habit. Did Bran already know? She was afraid to ask. To have him utter the truth aloud would make it all too awful and too real. And yet the questions continued to shake her, rattling around her brain. What had possessed Jon? To lay with Sansa – turn them into lovers? The brother she had known would have never considered such a thing. He would have been repelled by it. Of course, that brother hadn’t been stabbed to death yet. Had that contributed to it? Had it been the promise of another death for Jon that had made him act on something so taboo? Jon knew what had happened to Sansa with the Bolton fiend. Had he aimed to provide her some comfort? She recalled her sister’s face, had seen Sansa’s infatuation defined so clearly. What had transpired to have met with such a result? Arya couldn’t begin to guess. She seized on the fact that it had been Jon who had ended it, probably before he left for Dragonstone. Had he felt remorse for what they’d begun? She didn’t imagine that her brother had fallen in love, too. Not until he’d met the dragon queen, at any rate. That had provided its own complication, and she boggled at the entire mess of it between those three players, which would likely continue in the aftermath of the battle.

Arya’s thoughts turned to the Night King, the satisfaction she’d felt upon slipping the dagger into his gut and feeling the monster explode into a thousand shards of ice. She put her hand up to her throat, still feeling the bone deep chill that had sunk into her utterly with his touch, his mark burned onto her skin. Bran had been right; using him as bait to get the Night King into the godswood had been all it took. She’d wished she’d made the Night King her mission from the start. Melisandre had reminded Arya of her purpose. But that feeling of death had settled within her, living in her flesh like a disease eating pieces of her away.

Gendry began to snore, making her think of a sow’s snuffling in mud, and Arya rolled over on her side away from him as she continued to sort through her thoughts. She saw Jon’s face again, after she’d come rushing from the godswood with Bran in front of her. The shock he’d held there hadn’t been surprise that they’d all made it through, but something darker. Like he’d been ashamed for having survived. It worried her. And yet she hadn’t the foggiest notion how she was even supposed to approach him with any of this. It all felt insurmountable.

And what of Sansa? Jon had asked Arya to sit with their sister while he’d gone to work with the rest of them. At first she hadn’t wanted to, imagining it would feel too strange, before recalling Sansa’s anguish over Theon’s body. Having witnessed Sansa’s woe after Littlefinger’s demise, Arya determined her sister would be in much worse shape at the loss of someone she’d loved so strongly. She’d summoned a picture of what Sansa’s grief would have looked like had they lost Jon and the very idea became unbearable. But she’d gone to Sansa’s chambers, rapped her knuckles quietly on the door to see if her sister stirred. A very feeble voice had called for her to come in, and when she’d stepped into the room, Sansa lay in her bed facing the door as if she’d been waiting for Arya to arrive. Or had she been hoping for Jon? Arya had come to lie upon the covers, rubbing her sister’s shoulder in an attempt to assuage her sorrow.

“I’m sorry about Theon,” she’d said then.

Sansa had closed her eyes in pain but nodded her head in acknowledgement.

“I think I knew as soon as he offered to guard Bran in the godswood,” Sansa had said in a long, tired breath. But then her sister’s gaze shifted to study her and Arya felt her face warm, the knowledge of what Sansa and Jon had done its own beating heart thudding through the entirety of her body. “What made you go there? How did you know?”

“Someone suggested it,” she told Sansa. “And then it all made sense.”

They’d talked of those who had perished, those who’d survived, and then Sansa had reached her hand up to press it over the back of Arya’s, where it still rested on Sansa’s arm, and her eyes had widened just the slightest, an eagerness flickering there.

“Have you spoken to Jon recently? Is he doing all right?”

And Arya had stiffened at the inquiry, not knowing how to casually discuss their brother as if she didn’t know, as if she couldn’t see them there, on the stairs, Sansa all over him like she couldn’t breathe without him. She’d given some pat reply and quickly made her excuses to leave, telling her sister she’d come by later. But she hadn’t gone back.

Gendry’s snores grew louder, a sonorous staccato that drove her out from under her furs and out of her bed. Arya bent down and grabbed her pants from the floor, moving swiftly and silently as she began to dress. She’d rather get in some practice than lay about and would go back to nocking arrows.

As she readied to leave, she glanced back at Gendry to see him still sleeping, but then cast her gaze to the rest of her room, seeing the remnants of her halcyon youth: her stack of books, her old trunk, a small woodcut of Balerion the Dread. She wasn’t a child anymore. This place was no longer a sanctuary. It was just a room in a castle where she’d once lived.

* * *

He struggled to breathe.

They crawled up his back, their knees digging between his shoulders, pinning down his head into the mud, and Jon tried to beat them back as they kept running over the top of him. They were swarming him, he heard the screams of his men, which turned into the unearthly screeches of the dead, their bony fingers clutching him, ripping at his hair, and Jon tried to raise himself up as he had before, but he couldn’t. There were too many of them.

_I want it to be the way it was between us._

Bodies pressed down on him at all sides, the cold grip of the Night King around his neck, pushing his face into the dirt, and the mud filled his mouth, clogged his nose and sucked into the space around his eyeballs. He wanted to get up, but he couldn’t. _Jon,_ he heard Sansa beg him, her lips pressing to his. _I need you, too_. He tried to push her away. They couldn’t keep doing this, but then she was as heavy as the wights, as heavy and relentless as Bolton’s soldiers, and they were all climbing over him and he couldn’t get them off.

_He loved me. And I couldn't love him back. Not the way he wanted. Not the way I love you._

Dany was holding him and he’d wanted to fall into her, wanted her to make it all go away, wipe away the stench of his failures. But then there was Sansa screaming, calling for him, her tears soaking his shoulder. Sansa had to be told, this couldn’t go on. His silence had only made it worse. Dany was asking for too much. But then Dany didn’t know, either, and she kept looking at him as though … as though it should be simple enough to lie to his family. Yet Jon knew none of this had been simple at all. He’d been lying to them for weeks and he couldn’t stand it anymore.

_I wish you'd never told me. If I didn't know, I'd be happy right now._

Why had he said anything? Had a part of him hoped to live through the long night? Did he think he was preparing her for the state of their relationship when it was over? Not that she had noticed that they were relatives now, her concern solely on the throne. Who was he even coming back for? Jon had thought he’d known his destiny, had felt it for months, all those looks between them when the Night King had regarded him as someone to watch. And he’d convinced himself that his had been his purpose, surely, in being returned. Not to fuck over his family, to ruin a woman’s happiness. But the battle had been a disaster from the start. He’d watched the Dothraki’s flaming swords extinguished in a mass wave as they'd thundered across the fields only to be overtaken, just as he’d predicted, and then had to watch a repeat of his own history when Dany had tossed their plan aside and run to Drogon to fly into the thick of it and give her army cover. In that instance, Jon had spotted the White Walkers and had acted, too, the opportunity to take them out too strong, and was pulled right into the Night King’s trap, where he and Dany had been swept up into his storm, colliding into each other as their visibility was hampered by dust and snow.

They’d gone above the clouds, hanging there in the stillness and the moonlight, no time to marvel at the beauty of it before he had Rhaegal dive back down again, and then the Night King had attacked them from the rear. They’d fought until he’d disappeared again, Jon calling for Dany to make sure she’d been unhurt. He’d gone searching, Rhaegal reacting to his thoughts, the two of them knowing that the Night King would head for the godswood, and then he’d spotted him, Jon believing for the briefest moment that he could take him, as he and Rhaegal crashed into the undead Viserion and its rider. The two dragons had sunk their talons into each other, tearing at thick hides under scales, as he and the Night King had spun downward in their dragons’ death spiral. Dany had intervened, sending the Night King toppling from his mount while Rhaegal had come crashing to the earth, its belly badly slashed, and Jon had realized that of course he would fight the demon on the ground, it had always been fated, and as he’d run frantically towards him, the Night King striding forward on foot yet still a hundred yards away, he had held Longclaw tightly in his fist prepared to die if need be. And then Dany had blasted the demon with fire, and he’d held his breath, waiting as every nerve in him pulled taut to its breaking point. As the fire dissipated, the Night King stood unharmed, not a blemish, and Jon had turned cold to see it, but he’d run faster, knowing he had only moments to reach him, when the Night King had turned and smiled ghoulishly, Jon still too far away to attack. The pure terror he’d felt as he’d watched it raise its arms, knowing what was coming. The necromancer brought the freshly dead back to sentience and Jon couldn’t believe they’d lost, that the battle was done. His mind couldn’t absorb the reality that he’d failed here utterly. The new wights had surged upwards, had surrounded him, closing in just as they had in his nightmares, and he’d thought that had been it, that he would be ripped apart, but then they’d slowed, as if something had drawn their attention away from him and a moment later Jon had felt the raging heat of the flames as Dany had strafed them with fire, Drogon roaring overhead. Most of the wights turned into torches before him, dropping to the ground, and then he’d started racing towards the godswood, the understanding taking hold that the Night King had only ever wanted Bran, that Jon had fooled himself into thinking the demon had been destined to tangle with him at all.

But it had only gotten worse. He hadn’t even been able to save his brother, and Jon quaked under his furs at the shame of it. Bran owed his life, they all owed their lives to Arya, and Jon didn’t know what to make of that at all. If his destiny had been to fail here, then why the fuck had he been brought back? It made him sick to consider the alternatives. And he’d had to sit there the night before, laughing with them all at the feast after it was over, forcing himself to listen to Tormund’s excited and exalted stories of him as he regaled the crowd – _h_ _e keeps on fighting!_ –and Jon had smiled through it all, drinking as much as he could to numb him completely because inside, he knew the truth: he had given up. Jon had wanted to die. He’d been ready for Viserion to burn him to ashes, so tired of being pinned behind the rubble unable to protect his loved ones, and tired of fighting. He’d almost lost them all – Dany left alone amidst the dead after the wights had pulled her off Drogon, Sansa trapped in the crypts with their ancestors run amok, and Theon gutted while Bran faced that thing on his own. And where had Jon been? In the Great Hall they all looked at him with their smiling faces, their expectations, and Sansa had looked sweetly upon him with her joy at having him alive, and none of them could see that he was a mistake, that he had no right to be walking among the living, he was not one of them. He’d turned to see Dany all alone, her face an impenetrable mask and he didn’t know what to say to her to make any of this better. And Jon had felt completely and utterly lost. It consumed him. He saw them all there, was surrounded by them – his friends, his family, his love – yet Jon couldn’t feel any of them at all.

_It doesn't matter what you want. You didn't want to be King in the North. What happens when they demand you press your claim, and take what is mine?_

_I'll refuse. You are my queen. I don't know what else I can say._

_You can say nothing. To anyone, ever. Never tell them who you really are._

Jon tried to suck in another breath, his cheek pressed to the pillows as his body lay heavy on his bed. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t stand to face them all again. No matter which way he turned, he was hurting someone he loved. No matter what action he took, it was always the wrong step. He had done his best to assure Dany he wouldn’t challenge her claim, that he would do as she wanted, but there were things he could no longer offer her and they both knew it. With his mouth on hers, fingers ensnared in the buttons at her bosom ready to disrobe her, Jon had thought in his drunken state how easy it would be to just continue with the lie. To drop between her legs and give her what they both wanted. But then he’d heard the hiss of his father’s disgust in his ears, felt the blades in his stomach, and he’d stopped, knowing he couldn’t go through it again. What monster had he become?

_Sansa will want to see me gone and you on the Iron Throne. She's not the girl you grew up with. Not after what she's seen, not after what they've done to her._

As if he had to be told how Sansa thought, or what she would want. He knew it in his body. And what would she say when she learned the truth? What would Arya say if she knew what they had done? And as Jon lay there, gagging, the weight on his back crushing his lungs, he saw Hollis staring up at him with sightless eyes from the pyres, as they had prepared to burn the bodies. He’d lain the boy next to young Lyanna Mormont, the girl even younger than his steward, but who had fought more bravely than most men, bringing down a giant, and he’d recalled her faith in him, remembered Hollis’s faith in him, and now all he saw was their disappointment in desiccated features, their eyes shriveled away and replaced with those blue pins inside empty sockets. How many more dead children would he be responsible for? He heard Hollis at the door, trying to wake him, pounding on the wood. _King Jon! I can fight for you! Let me protect you!_ But Hollis was dead, he would come to Jon in the mornings no longer, and Jon shuddered as he felt the boy claw at him, the mud in his throat now as he choked on it, and he couldn’t move at all. The spirits swarmed over him, he heard their death rattles in his ear, their fingers ripping at his flesh. _You don’t belong here._

He saw Dany’s face again, the pain present in her eyes as she’d implored him.

_I've never begged for anything but I'm begging you. Don't do this. Please._

_You are my queen. Nothing will change that. And they are my family. We can live together._

How quickly her expression had changed before him, the tears gone, her mask returned, her voice grown so cold.

_We can. I've just told you how._

The pounding came again, the dead were here. They wanted him. And he was under the men as they screamed and shouted, their knees in his back while he gasped for breath, his throat closing up. He couldn’t lift them. His strength had disappeared.

“Jon! Are you in there or not?!”

A whine as the door yawned open. Jon heard the footsteps entering his room, the clicking heels of Sansa’s boots, he recognized them instantly. And then he saw her by his bed, his view of her limited to her waist and further below, her cunt mocking him with its proximity as he heard her speak.

“Jon, why didn’t you answer me?”

But he couldn’t talk, his mouth filled with the dirt and the mud, and every torturous swallow, every meager breath, it sunk down into his gullet, into his stomach, the weight of it keeping him prone, unable to move. His arms were like lead, and he couldn’t lift them to push her away.

“Jon? What’s the matter with you? Why aren’t you up yet?” She put her hand on the back of his head, most of his face still in his pillows.

She wasn’t going to leave, he could feel it already.

“Go away,” he whispered, and it was a struggle to get the words past his throat, choking on the mud and blood and the shit and the failure.

It was quiet for a moment.

“What’s happened? Why are you like this?” He didn’t answer. Jon felt the coolness of her hand pressed to his forehead, what she could reach of it. “Are you sick?”

“Yes,” he croaked. It was the truth after all.

“Should I call the maester to give you something?”

But there was nothing the maester could give him to mitigate any of his problems.

“Jon, they’re waiting for you in the great hall. They’ve been there since this morning. You said you would speak to them.”

“You do it,” he said feebly, his throat still thickly coated with the acrid tang of the burnt bodies. He heard his death cry in his head, Viserion’s face torn in half from Rhaegal’s claws and spitting blue fire everywhere like a volcanic blast. _Kill me already._

“What on earth are you talking about? The queen is coming down shortly with her retinue. She's expecting you to talk to our surviving bannermen and vassals on her behalf. They’re all waiting for _you.”_

“I can’t,” he begged her. “Just go.” The children were back to crawling on his walls again and Jon wanted to moan, the cold entering him so bone deep as he saw them skitter about, their death grins wide and leering. Hollis watching and giggling his face split apart as Jon and Sansa fucked each other like animals here in this room, in this bed, and Jon tried not to vomit, knew if he started he wouldn’t stop.

“Jon, you’re starting to scare me. I know you’ve had a rough time of it. We all have. And I’m happy that you finally got some sleep. Although it seemed as if you were ready to keel over with the way Tormund kept making you drink last night. But just come down and talk to them for a bit and then you can come back to your chambers and rest, and I’ll bring you some soup, and Arya can read to you, and we’ll take care of you for the rest of the day and you’ll feel better.”

“Sansa,” he growled, getting sick of this. “I said go the fuck away.”

There was silence for another beat. “What’s wrong, Jon?” She started to pull away one of his pillows and something wild in Jon rose up with bared fangs.

“Will you please FUCK OFF,” he bellowed hoarsely, his body shaking from the rage. He wanted to be left alone, what was so difficult about that, what couldn’t she understand? Or was she just refusing to listen to him as always? He grabbed the pillow away from her and buried his head under it, ending the discussion.

It stayed quiet for another moment while she stood there, watching him, he could feel the way she eyeballed him, studying every detail of his back for some master insight. Then finally he heard a sigh and her footsteps retreating, steady _clomps_ making their way to the door. He could have cried in relief, but instead, he just lay there and gloried in his defeat and general uselessness, the poison in him making his veins scream in protest.

He closed his eyes and saw the falling bodies again, wights dropping from the sky it seemed, as they landed around him, quick to jolt to life and swarm him, and he had swung Longclaw every which way taking heads and slicing through rotted flesh, but it hadn’t been enough. They’d still kept coming. And their breath, the sick smell of death a cloud around him, clinging to the inside of his nose, crawling down his throat. He groaned into his pillow, the bulk of it stifling the sound, and then he could see Dany after it had been over, the way she’d looked at him as though she was simultaneously happy to see him and angry that he’d ruined everything, that grimace on her face as he’d taken her to her room in the Keep, insisted to her that he didn’t want the throne, he would die for her, would do whatever it took to give it to her. But she hadn't believed him. He didn’t know what he saw there in her eyes anymore.

The door opened again, and he swore under his breath, hearing his sisters talking to each other.

“I told you, I don’t know what’s wrong,” Sansa said as she came closer to Jon’s side of the bed. Then he could see them both out of the slits of his eyes, the dark grey of Sansa’s skirt, and Arya’s breeches, Needle at her hip. A hand touched his shoulder gently.

“Jon, what is it? What’s going on?”

He moaned at the questions. “Nothing,” he growled through gritted teeth, not able to contend with them both.

Arya jostled him. “Come on. You need to get up.”

But how did they expect him to move when the dead still pinned him, when he had to gasp for air as the soldiers crushed him, and as he opened his mouth, he sunk ever lower, his face fully under the mud, everything turning to shit as it filtered its way in, and there was no light underneath and his lungs ached because there wasn’t any air either, as he fought to breathe, still.

“Jon,” Sansa called to him, her tone strident. “Enough of this.” He felt her pull at his arm. “Help me get him up,” he heard her say to Arya.

“Perhaps we should just get Maester Wolkan,” his sister said. “Obviously something is wrong. Jon needs some help.”

“Exactly, which is why I brought you here. So you can help me with him.”

Sansa was gripping him by the arm now, trying to drag him forward, but Jon wouldn’t budge. Couldn’t they see? Didn’t they understand he was immobile, frozen by futility? That he was damned to witness everything that mattered to him destroyed?

“I don’t understand. What do you think we’re going to do with him? Carry him downstairs?”

“Just help me get him dressed. He’ll be alright once we get him out of his chambers.”

“You’re joking, right?”

“Arya, are you going to help me or not?! I can’t hold him up and dress him at the same time.”

“Well, where’s his bloody steward? Why in seven hells are we doing this?”

But Hollis was dead. Because Jon had put him on that wall, crushed by Viserion’s flailing body as the battlements had come down.

“His steward was on the pyre. I haven’t found a replacement yet. Now take hold of his other arm while I drag him up.”

“I don’t think this is going to work.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for your opinion, did I? Take his wrist and pull, please. I’ll get his other side.”

Then Sansa was sliding her arm under his chest, hooking her hand under his armpit as Arya tugged and stretched his arm to hoist him up like a ship knocked over on its side being righted on the shore. His body was dragged up to a sitting position and he wondered what they would do if he did retch suddenly, all of the mud and the shit come pouring from his lungs to the floor. “Stop, please,” he whispered passively, no strength left to fight them.

“Good, Jon, good, now let’s get your clothes on,” Sansa cajoled. “Arya, get his things off the back of his chair.”

“I’m not going to dress our broth– Sansa!”

The furs were ripped away as Jon sat there, nothing to cover his nakedness as his little sister cousins aimed to move him about like a puppet. It was fucking humiliating but he couldn’t summon the desire to do much about it.

“What?! I asked you to get his pants.”

“Will you _please_ cover him?! I don’t need to see my brother naked, thank you very much. What is _wrong_ with you?” she yelled, and Jon was struck by the anger shaking in her voice, conveying her clear disturbance. Something had upset her beyond his appearance.

“Stop it, please,” he asked again. He wanted to disappear under the bodies. He didn’t want to hear them arguing.

“It’s nothing shameful, Arya, he just needs our help. Don’t be such a child. He … he gets like this. Just do as I ask.”

“He’s been like this before?”

Sansa had his shirt and was trying to get Jon to hold out his arms to slip on his sleeves. “Never this bad, but … he’s just having a hard time with it all. Once he’s down in front of the others, he’ll be himself again.”

“I’m going to get Wolkan,” Arya said in a defensive tone.

“Fine, then, go. I’ll do this myself. You might as well get Bran while you’re at it.”

Arya stomped away, and they both felt the boom as his door was banged shut, rattling the room’s contents.

“What did you say to her,” he slurred.

“When? You heard us talking.” She slid his shirt over his head, making him hold up an arm so she could ruche down a sleeve.

“Did you say something before the battle?” He held up his other arm of his own volition this time as she tugged down the other sleeve. There was no way he was going to win this and he felt his rapidly growing fury pulsing behind his eyes again.

Sansa leaned down and took his face in her hands, and he saw the worry in her gaze, in the creases of her forehead. “Jon, I need you to focus. Just do this for me, please. And then I’ll let you do what you want.”

“When has that ever happened, Sansa?” he sneered. He didn’t answer to her.

She went to grab his breeches off his chair and then knelt down on the floor before him, unashamed, unafraid. She glanced at him with her impatience, but he saw that she loved this, too, having him dependent on her. Defiance seized him, and Jon wanted Sansa to understand that she didn’t own him. As she slid up a pant leg over his knee, Jon grabbed her hand and moved it between his thighs, pressing it to his cock where he’d begun to harden for her in his rage.

“And is this what _you_ want?” he asked gruffly, Sansa snapping her eyes to his in fear.

“Jon, what are you doing? They’re on the way back.” She pulled her hand away and out of his grip.

“Are they now?” And then he’d slid his fingers into her hair, dragging her face up to his until her mouth was under his own, and then he was inhaling her, remembering the way Sansa had pressed her lips to his after he’d taken her away from Theon’s lifeless body. Sansa didn’t refuse him, her tongue instantly filling his mouth to thrust against his. Jon twisted her head until his tongue could reach as far back into her as she could take, Sansa groaning as she held him, and then just as suddenly he pushed her back, making her sit on her heels.

“I can dress myself,” he told her, taking the other half of his breeches out of her hand.

Just as he’d raised himself off the bed to slip them all the way on, Sansa’s surprise plastered there in her face as she gaped at him with dewy eyes, the door swung open again, this time with a loud entry of multiple footfalls and rolling wheels on the wood. Jon pulled his laces tight, tying them nonchalantly as Arya came back to his side. She glanced down at where he was tying the leather strings and then immediately back to Sansa, her features grim.

“What’s this then? You’re doing better?”

“I’ll be doing better when you all leave my room,” he said with some bite, his strength returning with the flare of his anger.

“My lord, your sister asked me to bring something to improve your constitution,” Wolkan said as he hustled around to their little group, pushing Bran to the end of Jon’s bed. “I have seen many suffer from … well, the aftermath of the battle can still keep its grip on those of us who have _seen_ things. Perhaps a lemon balm to help settle the nerves? Or I can bring you some milk-of-the-poppy if you need something stronger?”

“I’m not taking milk-of-the-poppy,” he insisted.

“Jon, he’s right. You were in the thick of the fighting. You should expect that it will take a few days before you feel like yourself. Take something for your nerves.” Sansa looked to the others as if she expected them to agree with her and provide their own encouragement.

Jon slid his eyes to Arya. “And you? Did you feel the need for a lemon balm?” he asked sarcastically. The hero of Winterfell, his little sister. If he’d only heard about it, his heart would have burst from pride.

She shrugged her shoulders. “We’re not here to discuss me. Just take the potion, Jon.”

Jon flicked his gaze to Bran, who sat watching him blankly in his chair. He quirked an eyebrow to his brother.

“You should come downstairs and talk to the men,” Bran said. “They’ve been waiting for you.”

And Jon took a breath, blinking back the emotion that hit him square in the chest and made its way up into his throat. Why wouldn’t they just let him go?

“All right,” he relented. “I’ll take it.”

Wolkan took a cup from his mantle and pulled the stopper from the small blue bottle he carried, pouring the contents into the cup and handing it to Jon. “You should add some water first, to dilute it.”

Sansa took over, pouring some water from his jug and swirling the cup before bringing it to his lips, her hand pressed to the back of his head. “Drink, Jon.”

And so he did. In front of them all. Sansa stroked his hair and spoke gently as they all stood gawking at him. “Do you need anything else? I can send up one of your guards to help with your attire if you don’t want me or Arya to help you.”

Jon took another, longer breath, the air in his nose feeling cleaner. This was his family and they loved him. He would do what he had to. “No, it’s all right,” he told them. “I’m fine now.”


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks again to mimreads and firesign for their thoughts on the early draft of this chapter. I want to thank mimreads most heartily for reminding me that Jon was trying to slip Rhaegal into his group going south, that sly little fucker.
> 
> We are running out of show scenes to reference. Much dialogue here from 8x04 "The Last of the Starks", credited to Benioff and Weiss.
> 
> I'm literally listening to Light Of the Seven as I post this. This score just never gets old and never fails to give me chills.

**.xxxviii**

Jon took another deep swallow before he knocked on the queen’s door. She’d stayed in her chambers for dinner, he’d been informed, and the grave look on Tyrion’s face while seated at the head table had not lessened his concern at the news. He’d opted to forgo the meal and visit her, not missing the sharp, disapproving gaze from Sansa as he’d left them all there.

The door opened the next second and Ornela stood there regarding him with widened eyes.

“ _Khal_ Jon! You come for khaleesi?”

“Ornela, I wish to speak with her. Is she … alright? Should I come back later?”

Ornela looked behind her, and they both saw Zhiqi come out of the smaller chamber reserved for the queen’s bath. The other woman saw them both and shook her head with a grim resignation.

“What is it?” Jon asked as he stepped inside, Ornela closing the door behind him.

“She take wash,” Zhiqi said with a shrug, coming closer to huddle with them on the threshold. “She no talk.” She crossed her arms and shook her head again at the hopelessness of it.

“The queen didn’t come down to sit with us all for dinner,” Jon stated, hoping the women would shed some light on her frame of mind. He knew he struggled with his own issues, but his family had gathered around him and had made him push through his weariness. Dany, however, didn’t have a family, she only had him.

“Khaleesi no eat,” Ornela supplied, looking as worried as Jon felt. “She say is poisoned.”

“What?” Jon was alarmed. That did not bode well for Dany’s recuperation. He knew Ser Jorah’s death had greatly impacted her, but he’d felt that if any of them could weather the battle and retain a strong focus for the road ahead, it would be Dany. However, this seemed like a step backward, a feeling with which he was intimately familiar. “No one is poisoning the queen,” he insisted vehemently. “Where would she get such a thought?”

The two women looked to each other knowingly. Ornela’s shoulder bounced up. “She say sister with hair of fire no like her.”

Ice ran up his back and he quickly held up his hands to stop their speculation from going any further. “No, that is _not_ true.” Even if Sansa didn’t trust Daenerys, this talk was madness. He had to talk to Dany.

“She always give same food,” Zhiqi pointed out. “Khaleesi no like.

Jon narrowed his gaze at the woman, trying to understand her. “What food?”

“ _Vaf,”_ Ornela replied.

“ _Oqet_ ,” Zhiqi said. _“Khaleesi zala meme adakha esinakh ajjalan.”_

They looked to each other again, Zhiqi raising her eyebrows in emphasis to her friend.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” Jon reminded them.

Then Ornela began to bleat like a lamb.

“Ah. I see.” There wasn’t much left of the livestock after satiating Drogon’s and Rhaegal’s appetites, and many mouths to feed still, but even he was getting sick of the mutton. If he had to go to the woods and kill a deer with his bare hands, he would find her one and split the animal open and put it on a spit to show her that she was safe here. “I’ll take care of it.”

A simmering amusement infused Zhiqi’s face as she watched him. “Khaleesi need more from her _khal_.”

“What? What can I bring her?”

The woman’s smile curved wickedly as she cast her gaze downward below his belt and then met his eyes again. “She need _niqikkheya.”_

He had a pretty good idea of her meaning without the need of a translation, but then Ornela aimed to clarify it, leaning up to press her lips to the shell of his ear as she gently pressed a hand low on his surcoat, sliding it down his pelvis delicately while she performed a moan in a lurid explanation.

He stepped back and bowed his head, not wanting to acknowledge their insight.

“I’d like to speak with her if she’s willing to see me.”

Ornela looked to Zhiqi again and the other woman shrugged before Ornela walked away to step inside the other chamber. Jon was reminded that both women had lost many of their people in the battle. Indeed, they were fortunate to have made it through the terror of the crypts. He’d heard that both had been instrumental in destroying many of the regenerated cadavers during the chaos.

“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he told her. “I know that you were good friends with Qhonos.” He took a line from his speech and gave her a sad smile. “We shall never see his like again.”

But Zhiqi only shrugged again. “Why you sorry? He die. Qhonos ride now in _Rhaeshi Ajjalani_. It is known.”

“Oh. All right then.” They were an interestingly stoic people, and didn’t appear to place much stock in sentiment.

Ornela came back into the room. “She see you,” she said nervously, moving aside to open a path for Jon.

Feeling anxious at what he would find, Jon nodded his thanks and strode resolutely to the other room. Dany needed someone to console her, he could do that much.

He saw the back of her head first – her plaits unwrapped but pinned to the crown of her head in a heap. She leaned back against the rim of the tub, her shoulders glistening from the wet droplets studded across them as she rested each arm at either side of her. Candles burned all around them, lining the shelves in the walls, and Jon detected a note of myrrh in the air as the woodsy aroma filled the space.

“Did you tell them?” he heard her ask plainly, before he’d even taken a step towards the tub. He paused at first, then huffed out a breath of determination and walked to her side. She glanced up at him in accusation but Jon knelt down beside her, taking hold of her hand.

“No.” _Not yet_ , he couldn’t help thinking. “I came to find you. I was worried. Zhiqi and Ornela told me you’ve not been eating since the night of the feast.”

“I’m not hungry,” she said, her tone sharp.

“I can have the cook fix you up whatever you like,” he urged. “You need only tell me.”

She searched his face, trying to divine his sincerity, Jon imagined. Her breasts sat up high, half out of the water but Jon kept his eyes to her face, willing her to entrust in the belief that he only wanted to support her.

“I miss the food in the East,” she sighed wistfully. “You don’t use enough spices here.”

“Then we will learn,” he replied. “Tell us what you hope for and I promise we will do our best to create what you desire.”

Her eyes flashed to him darkly, but then she lifted her hand to languidly cup the side of his face. “You know what I desire,” she said, and Jon understood her meaning was a dual provocation.

“Dany, I know you are hurting. Ser Jorah was important to you, and I know what that kind of loss feels like. But we are here to serve _you_. No one is … we all want you to feel welcome here. You’re the reason that we managed to defeat the Night King and his army. The North will never forget that.”

“All of you?” She raised a doubtful eyebrow.

“Yes, of course. My family … _all_ of my family is grateful to you, Dany. We owe you our lives.”

“And yet the people cheer for their former king. As they cheer for your sister,” she chimed in smoothly. Jon felt a panic flair inside him.

“They’d had a night of carousing with much drinking while celebrating the fact that they were alive. What they said or didn’t say doesn’t mean anything. But you are in their thoughts, Dany, I know it. We will march with you, and then help you take the Iron Throne. I made an oath to you and I intend to keep my promise.” He slipped off his glove and cupped his hand over hers where she still pressed his cheek, trying his best to convince her.

“They have now seen that you can make impossible things happen,” he reiterated, echoing that moment between them on the beaches of Dragonstone. It already felt like a lifetime ago. He took her hand and kissed the center of her palm, hoping his words would reinvigorate her confidence.

“Jon Snow,” she said sadly. “A man of his word.” And then her delicate fingers had circled around his wrist and dragged his hand to her breast. She used both hands to press it to her flesh and Jon felt the heat of her in his palm, felt the firm weight of it molded there. He drew in a breath sharply, knowing he wanted more of her, wanted to slide his hand down the length of her and hold her sex in his grip. Wanted to lap between her thighs and give her all that she deserved. The steam from the water made him overly warm, sweat beading across his brow and the back of his neck, and Jon looked to where he held her and released his breath slowly, the cruelty of their relation to each other never so severe than it was at that moment. “You said you loved me,” she reminded him.

“I do, Dany. That will never change.” Tenderly, he dragged his hand from her breast and gripped the edge of the tub to stand up, quickly changing the topic to douse the longing that had charged between them, as much for his sake as for hers. “I’ll speak with your Hand and we’ll set a meet for tomorrow to discuss our next strategy. I still have to take a counting of the soldiers I have left but we will make sure everyone is ready to act on your command.” He slid his glove back on his fingers, tugging it down. “If there is anything else I can send up for you, anything at all, send your handmaidens or Missandei to find me and I’ll arrange it personally. I want you to have every comfort, my queen.”

Daenerys watched him, a perceptive gleam in those violet eyes, but then she sighed extravagantly again, as if she’d just awakened. “I shall let you know then. For now, I’m going to finish my bath. Alone. You may take your leave, my lord.”

“Of course, Your Grace. In the meantime, I shall have the cook send up some broth and black bread. Try to eat a little something before you retire for the evening.” He bowed his head curtly, feeling the sting of her dismissal of him, but understanding that it went both ways. “Good night.”

He left her there to her bath and on his way to exit her chambers, glanced back at Zhiqi and Ornela with a toss of his head towards Dany, making sure his expression conveyed to them that they should come find him with any other worries that pertained to her. They nodded back and he opened the door to make his way out, taking another deep breath once he was back in the cold air of the corridor. Jon closed his eyes as he pulled himself together, forcing his desire away. He looked to either side of him, trying to decide whom he should speak to next. Tyrion was still in the Great Hall below, but Bran had departed early and so it was to his brother’s chambers that Jon turned toward, knowing that a conversation was due between them.

Taking the staircase to the family’s floor below, Jon trod softly, lost in his thoughts, turning into the direction of Bran’s bedchamber once he reached the landing. Sansa had mothered Jon as they’d gone to break their fast in the family solar, flittering about him like a hummingbird while tending to his needs as though she were expecting him to fall apart at any moment. Arya had been suspiciously absent. He was used to her skipping the feasts in the Great Hall, but she always sat with them when it was just the family. Jon began to worry. Fighting with a White Walker had been horrible enough. He could only imagine what she must have experienced taking on the Night King. He’d seen the marks about her neck. Jon had been so mired in his self-loathing that he hadn’t expended enough care on his brother and sister. He was determined to remedy that.

When he came into Bran’s corridor, he saw the moon shining brilliantly through the window at the end of the hall. The night of the battle came back to him in an instant, and the profound feeling of calm that had filled him for that brief moment when he’d been suspended above the world, safe above the clouds and everything eerily still, and that moon had bathed him with such radiance he’d felt split in two – the side of him which was illuminated filled by a burning spirit that seemed limitless, the light knocking the demons through, to the other the side of him that sat in its shadow colder than the ground under the snow. He had seen the darkest point of the darkness. But he’d also seen incomparable beauty and wonder, had felt the boldest love lift him up. He had to remember the light in him, couldn’t lose sight of it.

Jon came to his brother’s door and knocked loudly a few times, giving the boy a moment for his privacy before he let himself inside. He was sure Bran was alone by then, and already tended to by Brienne’s squire. The lad had been an able caretaker while Sam had been busy with reports for Jon, and possessed a gentle temperament. With Brienne staying at Winterfell to guard Sansa, Jon had hoped her squire would be available to spend more time with Bran. His brother needed a solid companion to take care of him, lest Bran forget that he had human needs.

When he came through the door, the room was dark, only a single candle lit by the bedside. Jon could see the shadowy silhouette of Bran sitting by the window in his chair, but the moon cast enough of an effulgent glow upon his face that Jon could tell the whites of Bran’s eyes had turned upwards, although they appeared as black holes in the light. It made him uneasy to see his brother like this, becoming a slavering vessel as this conduit to the past. And the future, too, from the cryptic crumbs Bran sometimes offered them. He didn’t know if that was a comfort or not, but he was keen to discover if Bran could give them any insight at all on the siege ahead. 

“Bran, are you here?” he said, in a low rumble. The whites of his brother’s eyes moved and then there were dark pupils blinking back at him.

“Yes. I was waiting up for you.”

That surprised Jon. “Were you?” He walked over to stand by Bran’s chair and glanced out the window. “What are you seeing out there?”

“The clouds,” his brother answered. “The mountains.”

Jon felt he could understand this part of Bran at least. “Aye, they are quite a sight from on high. I took Rhaegal out for a midnight flight before the battle. It’s … so peaceful. Flying right into the light of the moon … like you’re being pulled towards it.”

“The moon isn’t actually the source of the light,” Bran said tonelessly. “It’s simply reflecting it off of the sun.”

Jon frowned. “What are you talking about, Bran? The sun’s light isn’t here yet, it’s on the other side of the world.”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

He sighed. “Well, speaking of something that is not here – I wanted to check on you to see how you were doing after your narrow escape with the Night King. And to apologize.” Jon came closer, resting a hand on Bran’s shoulder. “I was supposed to protect you and I didn’t. We were all very lucky Arya was there.”

“Yes, we were. Or else you would be dead,” Bran stated plainly.

Another chill raced along Jon’s spine. “We would _all_ be dead,” he pointed out.

“But only you were seconds away from it. Viserion was preparing to burn you alive.”

He narrowed his eyes at his brother, still not used to the way Bran shared his gift so bluntly. “Yes, well. As I said, we were lucky Arya came through for us.”

“You think you failed,” Bran said, meeting Jon’s eyes. It was unnerving sometimes, looking into that gaze.

“I know I failed.”

“Why do you think Arya is here?”

The question threw Jon, not sure how he was meant to answer. “What does it matter?”

“She wouldn’t have been here to make that kill had she not come to Winterfell to be reunited with her favourite brother.” Bran gave the slightest indication of a smile. “Daenerys wouldn’t have brought her dragons, either. They came for you. And that is why we won.”

Jon swallowed hard, the suggestion hardly comforting. “Right, well, I don’t think the queen will be letting me forget that any time soon. This battle cost her quite a lot.”

“It cost you, too,” Bran said.

A flash of Hollis’s face left Jon’s heart heavy at the loss. He turned to look to the chair behind him and seeing it empty, sat down on its edge with a heavy sigh.

“I don’t think she quite sees it that way. She mourns the dead with the rest of us, but she will be turning her eye towards King’s Landing next. I need to know how we should best proceed.”

“Carefully,” Bran quipped. He looked out the window, his gaze dreamy. “Avoid White Harbor and take the Kingsroad.”

“That makes the most sense. The snows are still heavy, and turning immediately south will make it easier to travel.” He and Ser Davos had already discussed their options.

“You told her.” Bran spoke with a face devoid of surprise at the news and Jon didn’t bother to be shocked this time.

“Yes. The night of the battle.”

“She didn’t take it well.”

Jon snapped up his head at that. “Were you watching us?”

“I saw it later.”

That didn’t make Jon feel any better. He was reminded of Sansa’s voyeurism and it feeling like a violation back then, but knowing his brother could drop in on his actions at any time was too overwhelming from an emotional aspect. He had to steady himself with the idea that Bran had no real feelings about what he saw, judging by his indifference.

“She was … worried. She thinks I’ll contest her claim to the Throne with my own. I keep repeating the same assurances to her and I think it’s finally sunk in, but,” he sighed and closed his eyes, the truth of it so tiring. “She doesn’t want me to share the information with Arya and Sansa.”

“She seeks to contain it,” Bran said.

“Yes. I don’t know what to say to her to convince her that … that it will be alright. That if our sisters know, it doesn’t mean calamity. I know I can trust them.”

“Do you?”

Jon reared back, disturbed by the question. “Of course I do. We’re family.” But there was a pestering doubt in the back of his mind, Dany’s words about Sansa afloat in his thoughts.

“Daenerys is your family, too.”

He felt the cold run through him at the thought. “Yes, I know. I’m still working on that one.” Another worrisome thought entered his head. “Do you think she’s … I mean to say, what do you suppose might happen? If I tell them the truth?” The tickle at his neck that had been bothering him since that night increased to a full-fledged burning under his skin.

“You’re afraid of what she might do.”

The image he’d concocted of a young girl – one looking disturbingly similar to Sansa – screaming in terror inside a dark vault assaulted him. “I don’t know what you’ve seen of her past,” he said. “She’s told me about some of it. The power she wields is enormous.”

They’d all seen it; the way she had flown over the army of the dead and blasted them with fire for miles, burning thousands at once with a single command. He’d felt it himself. The sickening thrill of it, knowing he had been able to control such power with a mere thought, Rhaegal responding to him as if they were one mind. That first time had left him almost giddy, to look down and see his friends saved from the horde he’d just annihilated in a conflagration. It was astonishing. He imagined flying Rhaegal over the rest of the country, what he might be able to see with such a view.

“Those who control the dragons control the universe,” Bran spouted with the air of enlightenment. “And that now includes you, Jon.”

“I – I don’t want to control anything.” He was exhausted from attempting to wrest some control in his own life, and doing a terrible job of it.

“But you already do. You just don’t see it.”

“It doesn’t feel like it,” he admitted. “I feel as if the world spins as it would and I have no say at all.” He suddenly thought of Rickon’s face as his little brother ran to him, Jon’s instinct to save him rushing up in his heart even though most of him knew he was doomed to lose him. “I can see the disaster about to happen and I’m there on the other side of the glass, screaming for it to stop, but no one can hear me.”

“The power is right there in your hands yet you have them closed into fists,” Bran said, unmoved.

“Bran, I’m not the leader the people need. She knows what she wants. She always has.” It defined her.

“Do you want Daenerys to take the Iron Throne because she is what the country needs? Or because you feel guilty?”

Again, Jon was taken aback, and he stared dully at his brother, trying to discern what he was driving at. “Of course I believe she should rule. I know she will be a good queen.”

He’d spoken to her people, saw the way that they adored her, respected her. Ornela and Zhiqi came to mind, how Daenerys had given them a chance to break the chains of tradition and make their own choices. Then Dany’s face at the feast came to him, how isolated and removed she had looked, and a spark of fear dropped into his gut. He had to make sure she felt completely supported. He would get her through this. But what of his guilt?

“I owe her,” he said, believing it wholeheartedly. “She gave me my life, and I … I’ve only taken things from her.” This birthright of a Targaryen business was all new to him, but it was unfair that something she had strived for all her life should simply be dropped into his lap. “I didn’t earn the Iron Throne,” he added.

“Did any of them? Any of the kings of the past? I don’t think earning it is a requirement.”

Jon scoffed. “Alright, but she has. I would think saving the world and its people from extinction should give her that right.”

“She did that all on her own?” his brother questioned in a bored tone. “You weren’t flying right next to her?”

“Bran, what are you doing?”

“I’m not doing anything.” Bran sat calmly, turning to gaze up at the moon as its bright beam lit up his face. “She’s in love with you, you know.”

He sighed. “Yes, I am aware. It’s only made this more … difficult. For both of us.” Not being with her had brought its own complications, with his body craving the feel of her against him, wanting to be inside her and let the chaos that swirled around them disappear.

“You’re speaking of Daenerys.”

Jon snapped his eyes up to take in his brother’s expression, as if it would provide any tells. “Yes. Who are you speaking of?” Cold flushed through him and suddenly, he didn’t want Bran to answer. He stood up in a shot.

“It’s getting late. I should let you get to sleep. We’ll continue this another time.”

“You want to tell them, don’t you?”

He did. He needed to. But then what would happen? “Yes,” he said simply. “But she begged me, Bran.”

“She begged _you_ not to tell them. But you’re not the only one who knows.” Bran looked back at Jon, his face turned in shadow.

“Oh, so, I should have Sam explain it?” Surprised by his brother’s suggestion, he cocked his head in doubt. “As if that would make any difference? It doesn’t work that way.” Everything was so buggered. Another long sigh escaped him as he came up behind Bran’s chair and eased it backward to his bed. “Come on, I’m putting you to bed.”

Jon pulled back the furs and picked Bran up to ease him into bed, pulling off the boy’s slippers and tucking him in. When he was done, he leaned in and gave Bran a kiss on the forehead. Jon would probably be up for several more hours, prowling the halls of the Keep. He blew out the only candle and then made his way to the door. Just as he opened it, Bran called out to him.

“Jon.”

He looked back, the torches from the corridor lighting an orange stripe into the room, Bran appearing so young leaning back against the headboard, reminding Jon of an innocent time. “Yes?”

“You want to take Rhaegal with you, don’t you?” Bran kept his gaze on his legs but Jon felt he was being watched all the same.

“I’ve thought about it.” Knowing that Cersei was prepared for them, it felt safer to keep the dragons separated. Then there had been the part of him which felt a certain bond there, recognizing that he and Rhaegal had been a team.

“When you take the troops to Kings Landing, the beast should stay with you.”

“Why?”

“You have a meeting with the council tomorrow. Tell them you want Rhaegal.”

He imagined the dragon following them there, the terror it would bring to the countryside. Wondered if Dany would even allow it. She had insinuated they were better protected with a rider.

“All right. I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Varys stood watching as the queen’s council clustered around the table.

The Stark sisters and the young lord Brandon had joined them, but he noted that the former King in the North stood apart from them. Both he and Grey Worm were giving an update on their forces, and Varys watched them swipe away half the tiles with a rising dread in the pit of his stomach. While their armies had been depleted in the battle, Cersei’s was looking decidedly healthier, as he had to inform them all. The Golden Company had arrived to the city. Missandei hoped that the people of King’s Landing learning they’d just been saved from a terrible fate would make a difference, but Daenerys echoed the sentiment that he and Tyrion had already discussed with her – that Cersei would be sure to spread lies about the event and keep the truth from the smallfolk. He stood next to the queen, eyes on the map along with everyone else, but her next words sent a sudden warning chill up his back and he didn’t hide his distress.

“We will hit her hard. We will rip her out root and stem.”

He frowned, the chill spreading. Such words did not denote care for the people. Tyrion spoke up, and his tone was grave.

“The objective here is to remove Cersei without destroying King’s Landing,” he reminded her, but curiously, she did not appear to take comfort from that, her frustration clearly evident in the tightness of her jaw and the purse of her mouth.

“Thankfully, she is losing allies by the day,” Varys noted, eager to bring her good news. Yara Greyjoy had retaken the Iron Island for her queen. That was something at least. And the new Prince of Dorne was another good omen, he told them. But Danerys continued to be contrary, no matter what he or Tyrion predicted. Then suddenly, Jon Snow commented and instantly her eyes were upon him, and Varys saw how she watched him closely, hanging on his every word.

“We’ll surround the city. If the iron fleet tries to ferry in more food, the dragons will destroy them. If the Lannisters and the Golden Company attack, we’ll defeat them in the field.” Snow looked at her with nothing short of absolute certainty, and even Varys felt the heat from his gaze on Daenerys, as though he meant to assure her of his total devotion to her through his eyes alone.

Only then did Daenerys seem to accept the possibility that their plan would work, and with a faint smile at her lips she acknowledged his confidence in her and their eventual success. And then another voice spoke up, changing the air in the room.

“The men we have left are exhausted,” Sansa Stark delivered sharply. “Many of them are wounded. They’ll fight better if they have time to rest and recuperate,” she finished with aplomb.

Yet Varys immediately noticed the reaction of Snow, the way he had turned to his sister with a glare that could have started a fire. Sansa flashed eyes to him, but refused to back down. This was interesting, and Varys focused on the Starks in the room as Daenerys took offense. But Sansa was adamant, standing impossibly taller with her shoulders as rigid as Grey Worm, her arms clasped behind her.

“It’s not just our people, it’s yours,” she insisted to the queen. “You want to throw them into a war they’re not ready fight?” Snow looked positively livid at her continued revolt, and Daenerys could barely contain the anger that simmered dangerously in her tone.

“The longer I leave my enemies alone, the stronger they become,” she said, and again, Varys felt that cold creep through him. She was determined to be rid of them, but how far did the queen’s enemies stretch?

He had observed her closely since the battle had finished, had witnessed her sudden frangible demeanor and the way she had withdrawn, beginning with the feast they’d held a few nights ago. It had concerned him greatly, this mercurial onset of capriciousness, her moods ever changing depending on the time of the day. It hadn’t occurred to him how much of a stabilizing element Ser Jorah had been for her, but without him present, Varys had watched Daenerys turn inward. He had hoped that the Northerners would embrace her after their victory, won in no small part due to the queen’s actions, but that hadn’t happened, and furthermore, she hadn’t availed herself to them at all. The opportunity had been there the night of the feast, a time of revelry and an outpouring of gratitude, but outside of a few token gestures, she’d spent most of her evening sneaking glances to those who fawned over their crownless king, who in turn had kept a furtive eye on her. Something had happened, something which had unsettled them both, and Varys was keen to know what. But just then, the tension in the room seemed to soar as Snow had a comeback for his queen _and_ his sister.

“The northern forces will honour their promises and their allegiance to the queen of the Seven Kingdoms,” he said with a hard look at Sansa, before turning to Daenerys. “What you command, we will obey.”

Once again, Daenerys seemed calmed by his words, while the side of the room where the Starks resided held a seething undercurrent of turmoil. Varys watched as Arya Stark shot a discerning glance to her sister while her brother spoke, studying her sister’s reactions with a canny intellect. The younger Stark girl was concerned about this battle of wills between brother and sister, too, by the looks of it. What was going on there? Was there a growing dissension among the Stark ranks? He would need to ask more questions about the manner with which Snow and the Lady of Winterfell fell into their disagreements. There were definite fault lines of loyalty amongst the Starks’ vassals, from what he’d been able to glean. Lord Royce was a proponent of Sansa Stark, through and through, and his distrust of the Targaryens seemed to align with hers, as was the Cerwyn son.

And Snow seemed to be overdoing it, he observed, an earnestness that rode hard for his queen, as if he were single-handedly attempting to bolster her flagging confidence back to where it had been before they’d arrived. At least someone was managing it, he thought, the reality hitting him that Tyrion’s influence had all but disappeared when it came to the queen. Varys worried that his own would fare no better, knowing that it was tenuous at best with Daenerys and always had been. Perhaps if he could encourage Snow to spend more time in her Grace’s presence, to do whatever it was that seemed to settle her. His continuing reports from various little birds, and some older, were that the two of them had still not lain together since that first day in the castle, even after such heavy grief had blanketed them all. That curious fact had also sat heavy in Varys’s mind. Why hadn’t they sought comfort in each other? He was obviously devoted to her, and held no guile when it came to expressing it. Snow’s last visit to her had been too brief for anything carnal, as the queen had holed up in her chambers. But whatever the state of their affair, Daenerys had been placated enough by his declarations to turn around her mood once more, the smile she wore growing stronger.

As Tyrion explicated their plans, Varys watched as Snow dragged the marker representing a dragon over to the Stark forces that would be taking the Kingsroad.

“A smaller group of us will ride to White Harbor, and sail from there to Dragonstone, with our queen and her dragons accompanying us from above,” Tyrion finished.

Immediately, Grey Worm stepped over to Snow’s corner of the table and made a big show of taking the marker away, adding the dragons in with the small cluster meant to represent their party on the map by White Harbor. Snow was chagrined by the move but said nothing. Varys found that interesting, too. As Tyrion had noted already, and many had called out at the feast, the fact that Snow could ride one of Daenery’s dragons marked him as more than an ally, putting the two on an even plane when it came to the skies. Just how much loyalty did the beast have for its rider? Varys was almost saddened that he would be travelling with the queen, as he would have been very keen to journey with Snow and spend more time alone with him, to watch him in his element.

Daenerys interrupted his thoughts as she came to the end of her speech about the last war. While the idea was optimistic, there was something too emphatic about it. What would she enact to ensure this _was_ the last war? Varys wasn’t sure anymore.

“In all Seven Kingdoms, men will live without fear and cruelty,” she continued magnanimously. “Under their _rightful_ queen.”

He caught the pointed look she gave to Sansa Stark, who glared back in kind. Everyone in the room felt the frosty air between the two women turn to ice, as thick as the Wall itself, and their disagreement in the matter of the troops was hung on the backs of the men in the room. Varys sighed. Sometimes, men were easier to deal with in their hostilities, as they brayed and bellowed their demands, hacking at each other with their swords if provoked enough. Yet, the sharp tongue of a woman could often be much more lethal, he’d learned.

The council broke up and as he left behind Tyrion, he caught the sisters rounding to either side of Snow, their wheelchair-bound younger brother sitting to the side passively. As Arya Stark blocked his path to the way out, Snow stopped and looked at them both with some worry. “We need a word,” she said to her brother.

Varys shook his head as he faced forward, wishing again he could be privy to the contents of that upcoming family meeting.

* * *

“You understand we’d all be dead if not for her, we’d be corpses marching down to King’s Landing.”

Arya stood by while Jon and Sansa argued as the four of them clustered together in the godswood, Bran seated between her and their sister.

“Arya’s the one who killed the Night King,” Sansa shot back and Jon’s expression turned thorny. Even she couldn’t take all the credit for their victory, growing annoyed with Sansa’s constant digs at the dragon queen. She knew why her sister was doing it. They continued to complain to each other and Arya was tired of it.

“I swore myself and the North to her cause,” Jon said heatedly.

“I respect that,” Arya responded, needing to turn the tide of their discussion.

Sansa whipped her head to face her, looking betrayed. “You respect that?” she echoed in disbelief.

But they had needed her. Jon had been right about that. He’d given them all a chance by bringing her to Winterfell, and Arya needed Sansa to admit that it had been the right course. She didn’t want to have to take sides. It wasn’t fair.

She reminded Jon that they should be able to tell the truth, too, that they didn’t trust Daenerys. Jon wanted them all to be one big happy family with his dragon queen but it wasn’t realistic, and he had to face up to that. Surely he had to understand by now that Sansa was in love with him and wouldn’t ever see the other woman as anything other than a threat.

“If you only trust the people you grew up with you won’t make many allies.”

“That’s all right. I don’t need many allies.”

Jon’s eyes turned pained. “Arya,” he said gruffly.

“We’re family, the four of us. The last of the Starks.” Jon and Sansa both had to remember that. Arya couldn’t abide what was left of her family being fractured over jealousies and inappropriate feelings. It had taken too much for her to get here. But Jon seemed to take her words even harder, his misery plain on his face.

“I’ve never been a Stark,” he reminded them, sounding so bereft. Suddenly, Sansa was no longer combative, her tone quite the opposite as she insisted that Jon was as much Ned Stark’s child as any of them. It was strange to hear her sister acknowledge it out loud, knowing what she knew. But she stepped closer to Jon and reached for his hand.

“You’re my brother,” Arya told him, wanting him to feel it. “Not my half brother or my bastard brother. My _brother.”_ She saw him again, so debilitated and troubled in his bed, as they had all tried to rally him back to his senses. What was going through his mind?

He seemed to grow even more frazzled, something warring inside him, and then, oddly, he glanced to Bran as if awaiting approval. Arya and Sansa looked towards Bran, too.

“It’s your choice,” he said softly.

And then Jon appeared to steel himself. “I need to tell you something.”

The hair on the back of Arya’s neck rose up, her flesh pebbling with goosebumps, she didn’t know why.

“But you have to swear you’ll never tell another soul.”

Arya blinked back at him. She couldn’t believe he would say it aloud to them, confess to her and Bran with Sansa standing right there. It didn’t seem right. Something else was going on.

“What is it?” she asked.

But Jon kept insisting they swear to him, and standing before the heart tree, Arya felt another quiver of fear, wondering what else could be coming that might be even worse than her brother and sister sleeping with each other. Sansa wanted to know more, and she thought she could detect a note of panic, but Jon wouldn’t relent, continued to insist.

“Swear it,” he demanded.

Arya nodded to him. She would do anything for Jon. “I swear it.” Jon looked to Sansa, her face so pale and her fear etched there clearly. “I swear it,” she echoed.

And then Jon turned to Bran. “Tell them.”

Arya was completely baffled. She waited for her brother to speak and end this strange conversation as he sat calmly in his chair - judging them all, she thought as she saw his detachment from them drawn in clean strokes.

“It’s about Father,” Bran began ominously.

Sansa shared a look with her, both of them surprised. That was not what she was expecting Bran to start with at all. “What about Father?” she asked him.

“He lied to everyone.”

That couldn’t be right. Arya turned back to Jon but his gaze was on the ground, refusing to look at either of them.

“Bran, what are you talking about?” Sansa asked, as confounded as Arya and her voice growing tremulous. “Father was the most honourable and the most honest man any of us have ever known.”

“Yes,” Bran said. “But he still lied. He came back from Dorne, over twenty years ago, with Aunt Lyanna’s body and a babe in his arms. He said the child was his son. His bastard son. But … that wasn’t true.”

Arya’s body turned cold, a strange heat tingling in the ends of her fingers and her toes, across the back of her neck and warming her skin where the Night King had choked her.

“What are you saying, Bran?” She looked at Jon again, feeling a sudden horror, and Jon still wouldn’t look at her, closing his eyes as Bran continued to talk.

“The child was Lyanna’s. Father brought her son back home and raised him as his own.”

It was completely still for a moment, as they stood there and let Bran’s words sink in.

“What?!” Sansa cried out, her voice ringing through the trees, and they heard the flapping wings of spooked birds as they set off in flight.

“Are you trying to tell us that Jon is … that he’s … he’s the son of Lyanna and _Rhaegar Targaryen_?” Arya couldn’t even say the words aloud, that Jon was not their brother, not _her_ brother, the reality of it striking a sharp pain in her heart. This couldn’t be real. Jon was … he had always been a Stark to her. All the Northerners had always said it, that Jon looked more like their father than his trueborn children. And they had all believed it, everyone, believed that Ned Stark had fathered a bastard during a time of war. Because Jon had looked so much like her, too, the two of them carrying the Stark colouring while Sansa and Robb and Bran and Rickon had all looked like Tullys after their mother. Arya had always been told she favored her Aunt Lyanna.

But Sansa turned to Jon, her face aghast, twisted with a sick shock, and Arya felt that cold in her go deeper still.

“Rhaegar kidnapped her, raped Lyanna and … got her pregnant?” Sansa looked as though she might faint, but then she seemed to get control of herself, facing Bran as her tone hardened. “He murdered her, father said.”

“Father never said that. Robert did, and then everyone else believed it,” Bran corrected. “She wasn’t murdered or raped. Lyanna wasn’t even kidnapped.”

“What do you mean? Our grandfather and uncle died trying to get her back,” Arya said. “The mad king burned them alive.”

“Yes. But Lyanna was never in danger from the prince. She loved him.”

“Jon, what is he talking about?” Sansa demanded. But Jon could only look to their brother.

“You can’t possibly be a Targaryen bastard,” Arya followed, feeling the indignity on Jon’s behalf. It was too much. Jon was Jon. But even as she said it, a dozen little details were coming to light. For centuries, dragons had only been ridden by Targaryens as they had commanded the skies. And for some reason she had simply accepted that her brother could do it and had never questioned it.

“Rhaegar had his marriage to Elia Martell annulled by the High Septon,” Bran droned on. “And wed Lyanna in Dorne in a secret ceremony. He was keeping her safe at the Tower of Joy while he went off to fight. And then she had Jon.”

“Wait, what?” This was even more alarming, and Arya’s brain scrambled to keep up with the information. “They were married? That would make Jon legitimate.” Then it suddenly dawned on her what this would mean, her shock fully taking over.

“What happened to her then?” Sansa asked, staring back at Jon once more. “If he didn’t kill her then what happened?” They heard him suck in a breath as if he was about to speak, and his eyes shot up towards Bran. “Jon, say something!” her sister screeched.

Finally, he spoke. “She died having me,” Jon admitted, pain in his voice.

It stayed quiet for a moment; a hushed breath falling over them all while they absorbed the news, the only thing Arya able to focus on that Jon was Rhaegar Targaryen’s trueborn son, his heir.

Then Sansa turned and faced Jon fully. “And how long have you known this?” Arya could hear the barely controlled anger threading through her voice.

Jon locked eyes with Sansa, and Arya felt that separation, as if the two of them were in their own world. “Sam told me the night we returned,” he confessed.

Arya was stunned. But then his behaviour since then suddenly made complete sense. “Sam?” she questioned, staring at Bran. “Sam Tarly knew before us? Jon’s own family?” she accused, feeling convinced that Bran had told him well before Jon had arrived. She would have a talk with him later. But Arya’s eyes were on Sansa, who had gone very still.

“Sam was the one who discovered that Rhaegar's marriage had been annulled,” Bran explained serenely, not even slightly ruffled by her and Sansa’s distress. “Or rather Gilly did. He told me about it.”

As Bran talked, she watched in curiosity as Sansa tugged off her glove, and when he was done, her sister casually walked up to Jon. With a sudden violence and a bare hand, she slapped him hard across the face, the sound of it a clap across the wind.

“Sansa!” Arya yelled, instinctively gripping Needle’s hilt as shock swept through her at Sansa’s reaction.

Sansa didn’t stay to argue, however, turning away from Jon and storming off in the snow, passing Arya with nary a glance. They all watched her continue on her path, as she left them there.

Arya came up to Jon, grabbing for his hand. “Are you all right?” His pale skin only drew more attention to the angry red hand print across his cheek.

“I’m fine. I – I expected she would be upset.”

She turned to leave, deciding that she was going to have it out with her sister once and for all, but Jon cuffed her by the elbow. “Don’t follow her,” he said. “She needs some time.”

“I think we all do,” Arya quipped. She held Jon by his arm, too. “You’re the true heir to the throne, Jon.”

“Please don’t tell me that was your first thought,” he said to her with a suffering glance.

“No, it wasn’t. My first thought was that no matter what Bran says, no matter whose son you are, you’re still my brother. That’ll never change for me.”

Jon’s features scrunched together as he kept in his tears, and then he was picking her up, his face in her neck, and Arya hugged her brother back. Cousin wasn’t enough, she thought. They were more than that. She pressed her cheek against the fur of his cloak, holding him as tightly as she could.

After a bit, he put her back down and breathed out a long sigh. She glanced back at Bran, who sat watching it all without any emotion whatsoever. In her hopes for her family, she had considered her and Bran a team, upon seeing the way that Sansa had positioned herself next to Jon. But she realized that the last of the Starks each had their own crosses to bear, and their lives didn’t involve her.

“I’m still angry at you, by the way,” she told her brother. “You were sitting on this the whole time and you didn’t say a word to me.”

“It was Jon’s truth to tell.”

She looked up at Jon, seeing for the first time what a horrible strain this had been on him. He looked exhausted, and again she saw him in his bed, appearing so utterly defeated that she hadn’t even recognized him. It had shaken her. The memory of his return to Winterfell struck her, how she had looked upon Jon as a king, and how he had fit the part. She tried to imagine Jon in the Red Keep, sitting on the Iron Throne, but it was hard to visualize it. Jon would hate it there.

And that truth brought another reality home for her. Jon had told Daenerys, she understood with a sudden dread. Furthermore, he would be leaving with their forces to support the dragon queen in her campaign against Cersei. If they were successful, which Arya expected was likely, Daenerys would want to keep Jon close to her in the capital. She would seek to neutralize the threat he brought to her. What manner might she choose to do so? The thought left her with a nervous tingle abuzz under her skin.

“You told your queen already,” she said to him, not bothering with pretense.

Jon slid guilty eyes toward her and nodded. “I did.”

“And she was not happy, I take it.”

“You could say that.”

She held his hand again, a decision born in her heart. Jon would need her protection in the city. She thought back to her assignments, of all the people that Jaquen H’ghar had sent her to kill for nothing more than gold and the promise of a new face for his god. But she had come to Winterfell as Arya Stark and in so doing, had taken out the Night King, and she realized that she’d been meant for it, really, that it hadn’t just been another kill, but personal. The Many-Faced God, or the Lord of Light, or whichever god deemed it so, had made it happen so that she could keep her family safe. And she would keep Jon safe, too. Her thoughts turned back to Cersei, how she was the only one left on her list. Arya would finish what she started. Daenerys didn’t need to start a war if the queen was dead.

“When do you think you’ll leave?” she asked him. The bickering between Sansa and the dragon queen had been uncomfortable for them all, but she had watched her sister, knowing that Sansa meant Jon when she was discussing the men. What would her sister do now with the news that Jon wasn’t her actual brother by blood? Arya was afraid to see the outcome.

“Daenerys will want to leave tomorrow,” Jon said, squeezing her hand back. “Even with Sansa’s complaint, I should be leaving shortly after, maybe a day or two for the men to rest up. We still have to pull together our supplies. I have to leave some of our men behind to help with the rebuilding and to protect the castle, but once that’s determined, we’ll be packing up. It’s a long ride.”

“Sansa.” Arya looked at Jon, so much that she wanted to say, but this was not the time. She had picked a side, and it was with Jon. “What will you say to her?” Sansa would want a Stark on the throne, she realized, her sister's victory over the dragon queen all but complete.

Jon turned away from her, his gaze off in the distance. “I don’t know. But she’ll be fine.”

“Will she?”

They both turned to stare at Bran as he sat regarding them.

“Why do you say that?” Ayra asked him.

But Bran only stared back at Jon patiently, and with a sudden clarity she saw that he knew the truth about more than Jon’s parentage.

“She’ll keep her promise,” Jon said, his brow furrowed with commitment as though he needed to convince himself of it more than her or Bran.

“Of course she will,” Arya agreed, but inside, she began to worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bran obviously read Dune. _Obviously_.


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks to aflashofgreen and to mimreads for their beta and notes on this chapter.
> 
> A heap of dialogue from season four, but I can't be arsed to find which episodes so let's credit Benioff and Weiss for it anyway.
> 
> This one is monster-sized. It's a ride. But we'll be departing Winterfell after this. (Also, I have a terrible sense of direction, and always have, so I keep fucking up which gates lead to where. I might have had to make some edits in past chapters to correct that.)
> 
> tw: sexual molestation, with a big helping of dubcon that borders on noncon.

**.xxxix**

Sansa sat slumped over her desk as she read through the latest reports on the count of refugees, those who had survived and were now waiting for her to feed them. So many people displaced from all over the North and she would have to begin looking to many for labour, as they needed a work force quickly installed to repair the devastation to the castle. It was bad enough that most of their able-bodied men would be leaving with Jon to go and fight for Daenerys to win her precious Iron Throne. The only upside to it all would be to hear of Cersei’s bitter fall. But that woman stepping into Cersei’s place? Sansa could only feel rage at the inevitable outcome.

Especially with the news she and her siblings now held about Jon.

She straightened up with a sigh and considered the magnitude of the information and its possible repercussions, swiping her reports to the side with an impatient hand. Jon wasn’t her brother by blood. It echoed in her mind, and she was bowled over again by the mere thought of it. All of the hand wringing, all of the guilt and shame, and the battle within her heart to ignore everything that she felt for him – it had been wasted energy, apparently, worrying over a tie that wasn’t even there. Jon was still her family but he wasn’t her _family_ , in that immediate sense. Remembering the way he would talk to her in bed, the intimacy they had formed beyond the physical act, Sansa wondered not for the first time why Jon had kept this from her. That he wouldn’t let any of them say anything about the identity of his true parents seemed particularly cruel.

And that brought her to the second quandary. Lira had left her office moments ago, with another report sharing the same essential findings as her last four updates. Jon hadn’t been staying with the dragon queen. In fact, he’d been avoiding her all the way up to the battle. Daenerys was beginning to feel the loss most acutely, according to her spy, and had become taciturn and short with her maids, her irritation prevalent. Lira seemed to think it was reserved mostly for the Northern servants of the castle, as the queen called for Missandei to stay with her often. Lira had even suggested that one of her handmaidens slept in her bed with her. Sansa suspected the dragon queen needed other voices to tell her how special she was in the absence of Jon building her up. It was gutting, watching him grovel before her at the council like her little lap dog. Sansa couldn’t stand it. Jon was better than this.

Yet, he hadn’t sought out his queen’s affections and that was telling. He was conflicted, it was obvious. Her mind went back to the moment they had shared in the crypt, how she had felt his longing in him in that brief interlude, had felt him kissing her back until he’d pushed her away, the power of it still fresh as it had been. And then the attack in his room, when it had taken all of her patience to get him moving out of his bed, had left her in a tizzy after all of the drama had died down. She’d had to find Gareth after. Sansa had wanted Jon in that second, would have climbed on him had Arya and Bran not been on their way to them. What had he been playing at?

That Jon was leaving in a matter of days, to be gone for months, with the possibility hanging over her that he might not return, had only put her in a funk. How many times did Jon have to risk his life to prove to himself that he had a right to draw breath? They’d all only just escaped with their lives in this last battle, and she’d suffered losses that would be deeply felt for years, but Sansa had to worry about Jon being in yet another bloody war. And Daenerys really believed this would be the last? It seemed short sighted. Men fighting and dying, again and again, and the dragon queen expected them to throw their bodies down for her one more time. What if Jon didn’t survive this one? The pain of losing Theon rose up in her so strongly that she felt the room tilt, her breathing coming in short gasps, as the inconceivable notion that she might lose Jon too, slammed into her like the force of the dragons landing on the top of the towers. She couldn’t bear it.

The reminder that Jon was a Targaryen floated back to her, a persistent daydream, and she thought again how quickly everything would change for Daenerys if the news were to be trumpeted across the land. Whatever the specifics of this supposed annulment, or any question on the veracity of the document, she knew that all it would take to enfeeble Daenerys’s already meager support would be to challenge her claim with another’s. In fact, the same could apply to Cersei’s claim on the throne. The son of Lyanna Stark in the seat of power in Westeros would put her house and her people at a huge advantage. They would be first in line for all the resources they needed, trade lines could be opened again and with a fairer tax, their army would be strengthened with greater numbers. But aside from all that, Jon had the nature for it. People listened to him, and he listened back. He didn’t make demands on them for his own glory or personal gain. Jon had been raised by Ned Stark, and that name would no longer be tarnished in King’s Landing, her father’s honour restored at last. The people would learn of the Lannisters’ treachery, of Joffrey’s cruelty, and Sansa would be there to advise Jon on the deceptions of the court, of who to watch out for and which enemies smiled to your face as they slipped the dagger in your back. She would be there to educate him on how to properly motivate and engage his detractors. He had the North and the Vale on his side, and she would work to bring the Riverlands back under their influence. The dragon queen had thought herself clever for declaring Gendry a Baratheon and the new lord in the Stormlands to boot, but what she didn’t know was that Gendry was in love with a Stark, and consequently would be loyal to Jon. Sansa knew that Arya had turned down his offer of marriage, thanks to Gareth, but the queen didn’t know any of it.

Thinking of marriage made her think of Jon’s parents. All of these years, she had thought Lyanna had been raped and murdered and, after Ramsay, had held a special affinity for her aunt, visiting Lyanna’s statue in the crypts often to give her strength. There had been something about seeing her, knowing that Sansa wasn’t alone, her aunt had gone through such a terrible ordeal as well, and she had wondered how trapped Lyanna had felt in that tower, if she had cried herself to sleep the way Sansa had done when Ramsay had locked her in her room. The brief pause after Bran’s news, when she’d thought Lyanna had had to suffer a baby growing in her womb after being raped, too, had left Sansa reeling, reliving that terror. But to know that Lyanna had never been raped, never been held against her will, had in fact loved a man who’d already had a family of his own – she no longer knew how to feel about this change in history. And she realized that Jon’s attention had been bedeviled by this – that his true father was the dragon queen’s brother – had become the ruinous cause of his suffering. This was at the root of his imposed distance from everyone. She tried to wrap her mind around it: the woman whom he thought had been his aunt was actually his mother, while the woman who was his lover had become his aunt. No wonder his head was done in. She worried about him, having seen Jon at his lowest. Sansa would need to watch him carefully, and again, she worried about the state of his mind without her there to help him, when he would be in King’s Landing alone fighting for his queen.

She heard a single knock at the door, and then a beat later, another one, followed by a third. Sansa rolled her eyes. Now was not the time.

“Come in,” she called brusquely.

Gareth poked his head in as he pushed the door forward a short way. “Lady Sansa?” he addressed her eagerly. “Am I too early?”

“If you’re wanting to speak with me, then by all means, Gareth, come all the way in and close the door, please.” She didn’t need Arya snooping into her business and she knew her sister was very good at her craft.

His smile fell but he swiftly stepped inside and closed the door behind him. Hesitantly, he made his way over to her desk, but then came around it to step up to her chair. He leaned down to kiss her, smiling sweetly, and she instantly put a hand to his chest to stop him.

“Not now, Gareth. What is it?”

“Oh. My sincerest apologies, my lady. I shouldn’t have presumed.” His blue eyes narrowed, his blonde hair falling across his forehead. A scab was still crusted on his chin, left over from the fighting. “I thought you wanted me to … come by.”

She sighed. “I did. Yesterday. But currently, I am feeling a bit overwhelmed at the task we have before us.” She waved a hand to her desk to indicate the influx of letters and raven scrolls. Even Glover was demanding her help. “Everyone has their hand out.”

“Should I come back later, Lady Sansa?” Gareth stood there awkwardly, his disappointment plain on his face. They hadn’t really done much since Theon had returned to her, but looking at him now, just the thought of it made Sansa weary. She knew the lad wasn’t who she really wanted and she was tired of pretending.

“I don’t know. I have to prepare for morning, when the queen will address the crowd before her departure. We still have some clearing to do to make space for them.” And Sansa would have to stand there and smile during the formalities, with Jon standing by his queen to make it all wretched for her. At least he wasn’t leaving with Daenerys, Sansa noted. She still had a few more days to talk some sense into him. She turned her attention to Gareth.

“You will stay here at Winterfell, I’ve seen to it.” The boy’s face didn’t impart how he felt about it, he merely nodded, and she grew curious about his loyalties. “Or would you prefer to go with Jon? Find your glory on the battlefield? Have you ever been to King’s Landing?”

His eyes widened. “No, my lady. I … I would prefer whatever you desire.”

She sighed again. He was so blissfully simple. Nowhere near the maddening conundrum which was her brother’s mind. _No,_ she reminded herself. Not brother. _Jon._

“You wish to lead one day?” Perhaps she could promote him once Jon was gone, remembering all too well the sneer Jon had given her at the notion she’d lain with a guard.

Again, he seemed taken aback by her questions. “I – I don’t know, my lady. I never thought about it.”

“Well. That makes you different, doesn’t it?” But she noted his talent for discretion made him useful, and thought of Cersei. He was a good looking lad and would have been popular with the ladies-in-waiting. “You would have fit in at the capital.”

“I can’t imagine living anywhere other than the North,” he told her earnestly.

It was dusk by then, but the energy in the castle was at its peak, most of the guests having dined already. She heard the booms of closing doors, heard footsteps rushing by, and then a sudden pounding beat began, running under it all, and she snapped a glance to her window.

“Do you hear that?” she asked. “What is that?” She stood up and pressed the tips of her fingers to her desk.

“That sounds like the beating of drums,” Gareth said, supplying the obvious. They both took quick steps over to her window, where Sansa could see a great bonfire lighting up the dark beyond the glass. She could feel Gareth’s breaths on her shoulder as they took a look at the commotion down below, a sudden rash of goosebumps raised across the flesh of her arms.

“What’s going on out there?” she wondered. And then she saw a procession making a line for the fire, the camp outside the walls surrounded with the burly figures of the Dothraki. Their numbers had been decimated, but there were still hundreds gathering below, some of the horses whinnying nervously as strange voices began to call out.

“Look at them out there. They’re true savages, aren’t they?” Gareth watched with his mouth hung open as more of them gathered. Sansa turned to him with a frown.

“You don’t really think that, do you? They’re not marauders here. They came to help. They just do things differently.” Arya seemed to find them fascinating.

“I saw a few of them fighting up close. Completely ruthless, the men are. Took a dead man’s head off like it was nothing.”

“Well, that was the goal,” she reminded him. But it made her wonder about the aftermath of the battle and whether any perceptions had changed. She knew some of the lords had been impressed with the Unsullied’s fighting technique and their discipline after seeing it in action. Sansa looked down again and saw Daenerys herself at the head of the procession and wondered what on earth she was up to. “What do you think of the queen?” Sansa asked him bluntly.

The boy looked at her in disbelief, his expression gormless. “Er, I … wouldn’t know what to say, my lady.”

“Gareth, it’s just you and me here, I’m not inciting you to treason. I’m just asking a question. What you think of her personality, as it were.”

The queen was now standing at the head of the bonfire. From where she stood at the window, Sansa could see the woman’s long white plaits trailing down her back, the drum beats growing louder.

“Well,” and he looked sheepishly away from her, staring at the procession below. “She’s very beautiful.”

“And that’s all that comes to mind?” she snapped. Gods, men were stupid. What they wouldn’t do for a beautiful woman. Although with Jon, she knew it was more than that; dangerously so. Her thoughts flashed to the disturbing things he had let Daenerys do to him – the marks on his legs had not escaped her notice when she’d attempted to dress him – and a shiver ran through her at the remembrance. She was at least heartened to know that he’d put a stop to it. Yet the image of the two of them had stayed in her mind and as she watched the queen hold up her hands, she heard the woman’s voice speak out in that guttural language impossible to decipher. Strange singing began like ghostly cries into the night and the hairs on the back of Sansa’s arms and her neck rose up at the sound of it. She unclasped the latch at the window and opened the panes to hear more

A great cold blast of wind came through, but Sansa paid it no mind and stepped out onto the small balcony at the top of the Keep. Gareth hung behind her, trying not to be seen, but he whispered his concern.

“Lady Sansa, what are you doing?” he hissed. “It’s bloody freezing out there. Come back inside.”

But then Sansa had caught a motion out of the corner of her eye. She glanced to her left, to see a small group of men walking towards the opened East gate. Jon was at the front of them, and Sansa felt her body stiffen, the cold bite into her spine as she watched him. What was he planning to do?

“Gareth, run down there and find out what they’re up to,” she said hurriedly, stepping back into her office. “And don’t be seen!”

“Oh! Um, yes, of course, my lady. Right away.” And he turned and ran for the door eager as always, his keys jingling loudly at his hip.

Sansa stepped back out and returned her sights to Jon, who had gained ground closer to the camp. The vibrato warbling of the Dothraki was rising on the winds, the layered sounds of it otherworldly and terrifying, and she looked closer below to notice some of the Northern folk were coming together to ogle the congregation in small huddled masses, fear building in their murmuring voices. And as the drum beats grew louder and faster, she held her breath and watched as the bodies around the fire started to writhe, a strange dancing befalling them all, with the queen moving with them right at the forefront. Sansa didn’t know what to make of it.

Then Jon and his party were standing near the edge of the circle, watching. She saw him turn to the men with him after a bit, recognizing Ser Davos, and she could make out the pudgy shape of Jon’s friend, Tarly. They nodded to him and turned and left, one of his guards following, and then Sansa froze, her breath trapped in her throat.

The dragon queen danced towards Jon in slow, sinewy movement. She held out a hand to him and he looked to either side of him first, before taking it. She pulled him closer to the circle, and then closer to her, their bodies pressed to each other. Danerys let her hands trail down his back, and over his bum, squeezing it shamelessly in front of everyone as if she owned him, her face turned up to him in some sort of expectation. They were too far away for her to see their expressions, but she saw Jon put a hand up to stroke her hair, the way Jon had done to Sansa a hundred times. The dragon queen pulled him with her, the drums beating slower, the pounding of it filling Sansa’s ears and she felt suspended, time standing still, as she watched Jon try to pull away at first, but then was dragged further into the circle. Ever so slowly, he started to move with her.

Sansa couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

“What the bloody hell is that racket?” she heard someone utter down below, followed by tittering laughter, someone making groaning noises like a dying cow as they mocked the singing and chanting, the sharp pitch of the Dothraki’s wails soaring higher. She felt embarrassed for a moment, knowing that they laughed in ignorance. Many of her people had never left the North, it was all they knew. Dothraki screamers and Unsullied warriors were beyond their understanding. They laughed to cover their fear, none of them having been taught by Maester Luwin about the lands beyond their own. And as she watched Daenerys make Jon writhe with her, fear took hold of her as well.

Sansa stepped inside and closed the glass, her fingers shaking as she tried to lock them again. She couldn’t watch anymore; Gareth would fill in the rest of it. But she realized that the dragon queen was another Melisandre. Jon might as well be under a spell. His protestations didn’t matter any longer, for Sansa saw the sway Daenerys had on him to its full extent. The woman had done something to Jon. The air was cold around her and Sansa stepped near the hearth, but it was no different. A hiss filled her ears, the lasting words of Ramsay before he’d been devoured. _I’m a part of you now._

She couldn’t just wait until the dragon queen was gone. This needed action. But how would she get Jon to listen to her? She needed help. Her thoughts dashed back to that night in the crypts, the terrified screams all around her as women and children were hunted, and Sansa had clutched her knife to her, so afraid, but there had been someone there to hold her hand. A pain in her heart seized her as she struggled with what she should do, the air lost in her lungs. Sansa couldn’t talk to Arya about this. And Bran was out of the question.

Sansa leaned her head against the stone of the mantle, the fire finally warming her through as her thoughts tumbled and warred with each other.

* * *

“Did she say anything else about it? What she intends to do? Now that we’ve won, that is.”

“No, Sam, I told you. We haven’t talked anymore on the matter.”

They were walking through the keep on their way to the East gate, following the drums that had begun in earnest several minutes ago. He’d admitted to Sam that he’d informed Dany, finally, but was bullish on providing any more details. He hadn’t even told him about sharing the news with Sansa and Arya, but Sam seemed to know anyway, and Jon had a moment to wonder what kind of relationship had sprung up between him and Bran.

“Well, I suppose that can be taken in a positive light,” Sam commented, trying to keep up with Jon as he strode under the arches and into the blistering chill of the night air, their breaths clouding in front of them as they walked. “I mean, she hasn’t burned you alive, has she?”

“Sam, let’s not talk of it here,” Jon muttered in low tones, his eye on the guards that stood at their posts.

“Oh, right, sorry.”

Jon had noticed that Sam had been more flippant after the battle and he wondered at the impulse. It had been difficult for him to face Sam when it had been over, to stand there in the wreckage and look him in the eyes, knowing he’d left Sam for dead as his friend had struggled with the wights pinning him to the ground. But Jon had known that Bran had been the target and that all the rest of them were expendable, he couldn’t afford to stop and help anyone. It had been a bitter taste to swallow, one of many, yet when he’d attempted to explain his reasons later Sam had brushed it off quickly, appearing almost embarrassed by it.

“What are they doing?” Sam asked as they stood watching, the growing fire that blazed bringing back memories of the battle so vividly.

“It’s one of their rituals,” Jon explained. “They are praying to their god to make them victorious in battle.” He recalled the similar scene on Dragonstone when he had first watched them, and marveled at how much had changed since then. “Daenerys leaves in the morning with some of them; they’ll escort her small council. The rest will travel with me and my men.”

“Isn’t the march on the capital a ways off, though?” Sam asked, his eyes widening. “They still have to get there first. Wouldn’t it have made more sense to do it the night before?”

“Aye, that’s usually the way of it,” he answered, remembering Ornela’s explanation. But he comprehended that Daenerys was making a point of doing it in front of his people. The realization did not put him at ease.

“Evenin’, gentlemen. And what is this all about, do you think?” Davos had come up behind them, Tomas accompanying him with his staff. The soldier’s long ginger beard fluttered in the cold breeze, bits of snow flecked throughout it, as he looked to Jon with a grim concern creased in his brow, a face he was rarely without.

“Ser Davos. Tomas,” Jon acknowledged, all of them now looking through the open gate towards the scene playing out in the field, the tents behind them obscured by curling smoke. “Why don’t we take a closer look,” he said, and began walking towards the fire. He wanted to make sure Dany was doing better, at least.

Sam ran up next to him, chugging out more flocculent puffs of cold breath as they made their way to the gathering. “Queen Daenerys is with them,” he said to the other two.

Davos was watching Jon warily as they walked; he could see the man looking him over out of the corner of his eye. He knew he’d been causing his second some worry. Jon supposed he could say that of most of his inner circle.

Chanting grew louder, as the women’s wails seemed to ascend their way to the heavens in white spiraling streams, Jon seeing the air quiver above the flames. Dany had left many of the Dothraki women on the island, to tend to the fortress and the men there to guard it, but there were at least a dozen who had traveled with her to aid in the fight, including Zhiqui and Ornela. Jon and his men came to the other side of the gates and stood for a moment to watch the goings on.

“It’s quite mournful, isn’t it?” Davos commented.

“They are in prayer,” Jon said again. “Beseeching their horse god to grant them good fortune in the war to come.” But also, he reflected, this was the first chance they’d had to pray for all those they’d lost. “And the Dothraki have their own way of sending off the dead,” he said. They had stood silently at the burning of their fallen comrades, but now was a time when they could work through their grief in their own way.

“I see it’s not just Dothraki,” Sam noted with a tip of his head toward the throng, and they all saw the queen’s companion, Missandei, dancing along with the rest. The women seemed to throw aside any notion of propriety at all and simply rejoiced in the music of the singing and drum beats, their devotion to the gods in their movement. Jon stood with his men and felt their awe at such freedom, remembering that he’d felt the same back on the beach. What would it be like to feel such complete abandon with one’s body? Jon had only ever felt it while fighting, or during sex, and as he and the men watched the women sway their hips with such a bold sensuality, he understood keenly why some found it frightening. A woman’s desire was a joyous revolt to those prison cells of duty they’d been consigned to by men. Jon tried to imagine Sansa among them and felt a strange thrill, knowing how she craved free reign over her body, too. He’d had a unique view of the full range of her passion up close, after all.

They weren’t the only group of onlookers, he noticed. Grey Worm was glaring at him from his own small squad of soldiers off to the other end of the circle. Jon nodded in acknowledgement to the man, and Grey Worm nodded back, but it was a token response. There was a distinct feeling of distrust coming from Dany’s commander, and Jon wasn’t sure if the suspicion was due to Jon’s relationship to his queen, or how Dany had been handling things in the wake of Jon’s confession. The aggression at the council had not been missed by anyone, yet Jon hadn’t felt it was the time to counter it with more enmity, there was enough of that going on around the table already. He had spoken to Dany after dinner, another visit to her chambers, where he had quietly given his reasons for keeping Rhaegal near their host on the trek down to the capital. She had not shared his views, however, and he couldn’t fault her reasons for keeping the dragon with her. She saw them as her children, after all. _They aren’t beasts to me_ , she had told him once.

Jon heard gathering whispers and looked behind him to see some of the townsfolk flocking by the guards at the sides of the gate, peering at the dancers with frightened faces. He turned to Sam.

“Sam, why don’t you and Ser Davos go and have the men close the gates,” he directed, eyeing Tomas as well. “Take the gawkers inside, and let’s leave the queen and the Dothraki to worship in peace.”

“What about you, Jon? Are you staying?” Sam gave him a puzzled look, and Jon understood his friend was still upset with Dany but it irked him all the same.

“I’ll be fine. Go disperse the crowd before there are too many of them out here.”

They left him there and headed back into the courtyard, Davos calling out to the guards to close the gate. Jon walked closer to the Dothraki’s circle, the drums slowing as the priestess at the center of it all seemed to moan out a sermon to the skies. As he sauntered up to the men clustered at the edge, heard their chants as they raised their _arakhs_ , Jon felt a hot breath near his elbow and turned around. Ghost had silently padded up next to him, watching the goings on with interest. Jon stroked him behind his good ear, the torn one not quite healed, and Ghost still looking the worse for wear from the battle. He took comfort in the warmth the beast brought, as Jon was without his cloak, knowing the minute he’d heard the drums from the keep that Dany would be joining in their ceremony.

Daenerys was in her thick white coat, the sanguine streaks which ran through the fur shimmering in the firelight like blood pumping into her veins, while her plaits whipped down her back as she twirled and shook. Rapture shone upon her face but Jon knew it wasn’t for any horse god, rather from her own pleasure, and as she opened her eyes, she took notice of him and smiled dreamily. Jon felt his body vibrating as much from her gaze as from the beating drums and the wails to Vezhov, the fire which roared before them licking the dark. She started to dance towards him, the rhythm of the music guiding the undulations of her hips. A rising dread in his gut made him take a step back, but then the men in front of him stepped away, giving her a clear path. She held out a hand to him enticingly and Jon slid a glance to the bloodriders on either side of him, seeing the way they looked at him in acceptance. It was a thrilling invitation, sexual and bold, and he felt compelled to take her hand, not knowing what was next.

Dany pulled him closer to the fire, into the ring of wanton dancers, and a sudden nervous energy invaded him, a squirming sensation in his belly, and so he resisted her, his heels digging into the snow, feeling that familiar shame arise. But then Dany had her arms around him, he felt her fingers trail down his back even under the leather of his coat. Desire flushed her face, made her smile wicked, as she grabbed onto his backside and looked deep into his eyes. Jon couldn’t break away, feeling mesmerized by her gaze; by the rhythmic pounding that traveled from his feet up into his cock, into his back, his neck, his ears, and the soulful siren calls all around freeing something inside of him, a desperate will that had scraped against his breastbone as a dove in a cage. He put his hand up to stroke her hair, remembering that night on the ship with a visceral longing, when they had sworn themselves to each other. And Jon wanted to go back there, to when everything had felt promising, before reality had come crashing down on them both, and then pain hit his heart as he heard Ygritte sigh in his ears. _I don’t ever want to leave this cave, Jon Snow. Not ever._

“Jon,” Dany whispered lovingly, and she held his body to hers as she moved her hips against his, evoking the memory of their bodies locked in congress, a reminder of the way their lovemaking had soothed him and driven him, and the force of it set upon every inch of Jon and he wanted to take her right here in this field, in full view of her army. He blinked back at the shocking images that flooded his mind, but she wouldn’t let go of him, held on until he moved with her, giving in to his libidinous urges the only way he could, mimicking the way they had moved together before. His hips were pressed against hers and he swayed with her, feeling strange and woozy. Jon tore his eyes away from her to cool his head, glancing to the faces staring back at them with dark rimmed eyes, watching them as their chants swelled, like the building rumble of thunder coming across the moors. It all felt like a dream, and Jon tried to wake up, tried to pull away from her again, but then a body was pressed at his back, pushing him towards the fire as Dany held his eyes with her own, leading him closer to the warmth and the life that his body craved. Another press of hot flesh came up along his side, and Jon turned to see Ornela flashing him a wide-eyed look of awe before she was writhing her body against him, too, moving lower to lean her mouth towards his chest. She kissed him right at his side, her hands reaching up under the hem of his surcoat to stroke a hand over his hardness and Jon grunted, Dany reaching up to slip a thumb into his mouth.

He sucked on it, wanting her, feeling lips buss the nape of his neck as he did, and Jon turned his head, still in a daze as he looked over his shoulder to find that Zhiqi was behind him, and the three women held him in this trance, brushing their breasts against him, as their hands stroked him, squeezed him, and pushed his hips to sway in synch with their khaleesi.

“ _Khal Jon_ ,” one of the women moaned and it floated on the stream of voices that swirled around their writhing quartet, the snow beginning to fall in soft, silent drops while the fire raged beside them like a split into the fabric of the world, an opening for which they might step through and be delivered elsewhere. The understanding that Dany could walk right into those flames and she would be unharmed took root in his mind, as he wondered what that would feel like, to be inundated with such a shuddering power. Being a Targaryen was not the key to this magic, the old burns in his hand proof that he was not immune to flame, but he knew in his bones that Dany was the kind of person for whom prophecies were made. He dropped his eyes to where Ornela was squatting beside them, placing a kiss on his thigh, her hands rubbing his cock, and then Dany coaxed his face back to hers, eyes boring into his, her hands on his jaw and his neck. The orange flames reaching for the night sky were reflected there in her dark pupils, splitting them in half like a cat’s eye, like those of her dragons, and with fingers locked behind his neck, she pulled him down, her mouth reaching for him. He kissed her, and for a moment he felt lost, the fire was inside him, before a scream in the night air made him rear back. And as Jon sucked in the cold air through his lungs, it woke him up enough to his surroundings that he took in the throng, saw bodies still dancing, arms opened to the heavens, and then Jon caught sight of Missandei. The woman had gone still amidst the frenzy, standing apart from the rest as she watched him with a sudden knowing. And as he focused on her face, his circumstances swooped in on the chilled wind and he remembered where he was, and who else would be watching.

“I have to go,” he said aloud, needing to break this spell before it took him somewhere he couldn’t come back from.

“Stay,” Zhiqi crooned into his ear. “Khal Jon feel good,” she said, grinding her cunt against his arse. Jon didn’t know if the statement was meant for him or for her.

But Jon forced himself to stop dancing, stop moving, or whatever it was that he was doing with them, and he took hold of both of Dany’s arms and stepped away from her.

“Your Grace,” he choked out, his face burning with a ruddy flush in his cheeks. “I must take my leave. I need to – to make sure everything is ready for you before the morning.”

She watched him as he blundered through his excuses, her face gone back to its inscrutable mask, and he waited for her response feeling like a dullard.

“If you must,” she said coolly. She turned and went back to her people, the girls unlatching themselves from Jon and following her. Ornela looked back at him once, a sad smile fixed there, before she turned and began dancing with the others.

Jon turned to walk away and felt the cold envelop him, ripping at his exposed skin with gnashing teeth. He walked steadily towards the gate, when he felt those hot breaths come up beside him.

“Come on, Ghost.”

They walked on until the chants became murmurs. “Open the gate!” someone called. And then Jon was back inside the walls, the drums still beating inside him.

* * *

“Your Grace, are you sure you don’t want to do this from outside the castle walls? There is still a fair bit of wreckage that cannot be moved yet, making it unsafe in some spaces to congregate. Perhaps – ”

“I want to speak to all the people of the North before I leave,” Daenerys insisted as they walked the corridors of the Keep, Varys and Missandei behind them. “The Warden has said we can address them from the top of the Keep looking out to the south side of the grounds. The Unsullied are in formation on the other side of the gates. The Dothraki are ready to mount their horses. There’s plenty of space, as we have decidedly fewer residents than we did before the battle.”

She marched in her grey frock with its burgundy stitching, her dragon chain linked across her chest and her cravat tied at her throat. It was her last opportunity to inspire these dull people and she would not waste it. Having had some time to adjust to the revelation of Jon’s history, Daenerys felt a sense of the predestined overcome her. No wonder he had come across so differently. He wasn’t one of them, he was like her, a Targaryen, and she saw the full truth of it now. As she and her advisors walked to the other end of the Keep, she recalled the evening before, and her smile grew. Jon still wanted her, there had been no change in the consistency of his ardor, and she had taken great comfort from it, seeing his devotion as sincere. Once she had the throne, she would have Jon with her, away from this cold place, and his family’s hold on him would lessen. He merely had to adjust, as she had, with the new meaning of what they were to each other. Jon did not understand that it was the way of her house, but he would realize soon enough that this didn’t alter anything, really. In fact, she felt even more committed to the idea that they belonged together. Jon was not just her lover, he was her family, and that suddenly felt right. She would show him what it meant to be a Targaryen in every manner possible.

They arrived at the open antechamber atop the Keep, and as she stepped into the room, brilliant light hit her and made her avert her eyes at first, the sun’s rays refracting a prism of colour against the stone walls. A bitter chill from the air instantly seeped in through her frock, but she knew she would be warmed by Drogon soon enough as she smiled at the small group ahead of them under the roof of the balcony. Jon stood waiting for her, the furs around his shoulder from his long cloak making him look like a winter king, and she wondered how he would look in her colours, fighting with her Queensguard. The image that came to mind only made her smile broaden.

“Your Grace, my lord Hand, Lord Varys, my lady. They are ready for you.” Jon bent his head and smiled back at her, his face a delight. A sudden vision of him between her legs, the way his eyes had watched her as he gave her such pleasure, made her breasts tingle, her nipples tight, and it only infused her with a righteous determination as she prepared to speak, feeling empowered by her desires. She strode up to the railing to take a look down below, where the throng had gathered, overflowing the square, people watching from balconies, from the only covered bridge left standing, her Unsullied in the distance, but Jon’s soldiers rank and file at the back of the smallfolk. She closed her eyes, calling to her children, and then turned to face Jon and his sister, the icy and beautiful Lady Sansa standing stiffly as was her tendency, her leather frontpiece like armor all but declaring her willingness to go to war with anything Daenerys had to say. Jon’s younger brother sat in his strange chair watching her with that imperturbable gaze. He made her uneasy, and she was glad to be leaving Winterfell, to finally be away from these prying eyes of Jon’s Stark family.

“My lord, I thank you for arranging this as I requested.” She did not miss Sansa Stark’s narrowed, unhappy glance with her words. Daenerys was well aware of the fact that Sansa had orchestrated the gathering of her people and the clearing of the yards, but, thankfully, she would only have to deal with the woman from afar from now on. Let her seethe on the slight, Daenerys had already moved on, she was done having to ingratiate herself to them. Her eyes flicked to Jon, feeling his sister – not his sister, she reminded herself – watching her, and Dany smiled sweetly at him again. She had wished the two of them could have had some time alone beyond what went on the evening before. Her body called out for his, and Jon had been so eager to please her, she’d seen it, that battle within himself a reservation held for a parochial notion. She had even felt pride at his request for Rhaegal, more proof that his Targaryen side was winning out. Dany had almost felt bad for denying him, but she had reminded him that Rhaegal had been badly wounded by his undead brother, and needed this flight to recuperate, the inclination to want to please Jon as he rode on his back making him too susceptible to perform daring feats. He would want to show off for his rider, she knew. No, Rhaegal needed to be with his mother, and that possessiveness had risen up in Dany’s bosom, a need to make sure Jon understood that Rhaegal had only been on loan, that Jon didn’t have a right to him. But he would learn.

She looked out over the crowd again, and then felt a rush inside her, knowing Drogon was near. The veranda they stood on was part of the rotunda at the top of the tower, a gallery wrapping all the way around its circumference. Another flat, smaller dome sat above them but she knew it was strong enough to support Drogon, and seconds later, they felt the heat sizzle down and blanket them as a shadow fell over the people’s heads below. Lady Stark looked up with wide eyes as they felt the thunder of Drogon landing over their heads. Her child called out to her in a long shriek and a shot of pride blasted throughout her, steeling her spine, the awe in the faces below only assuring her that they would grow to love her when she took the throne, just as they loved Jon.

“ _Dovaogēdyr!”_ she cried, seeing her Unsullied immediately react, their staffs pounding the ground as they stood impossibly straighter in the fields and gave a unifying grunt. She waved a hand to her Dothraki bloodriders, some already on their horses as they skittered and traipsed behind the Northern soldiers.

“ _Zhey qoy Qoyi!”_

She raised her fist up to her bloodriders and they cheered her, the rest of them beyond the castle’s gates calling back to her in hollering yells and the high, trilling pitches of their battle cries. Their pride in their history, in who they were as a people, in her, came through in a visceral wave, slamming into her spine as she absorbed it all, her tits on fire. She smiled graciously down at the Northerners, reminding herself that they didn’t really have to like her, they only need follow her.

“To all Northerners, men of the Vale, and those who joined us from the south, I speak to you now as we prepare to fight the Last War! Westeros will be in the grip of tyranny no longer! We march to the capital, where we will be victorious, just as we were in our battle with the darkness! Together, we defeated a great enemy. And together, we will take what is ours from those who would tear apart all we hold true!” Her voice ripped out of her and over the wind and the crowd, beyond the walls, a strength there in her chest, in her throat, that carried the vestiges of every fight she’d ever been through. She would persevere, it was in her nature. And no one would take anything from her or her people again.

“We have lost too much,” she reminded them all. “And we will not back down. It is time for us to stand together once more to unite all of the seven kingdoms, as they once were, with the pernicious bodies of the crown removed! Cersei and her son, her father, Tywin Lannister, murdered Ned Stark, as they did his son. We will never forget that! Avenge them, Northmen! You join us as we march forward to break all chains, to crush our enemy under our boots, and we will make the North what it once was!” She looked to Jon standing by her, saw his face so serious with eyes widening as she took the fist she held aloft and reached over to touch his cheek, stroking it with her heart ablaze. Jon’s eyes grew as big as plates as he gawked back at her, his mouth a straight line, the two of them understanding that her show of affection was a promise.

“With the Warden of the North at my side, the country will return to its former glory, I promise you this!” She looked to the soldiers again, their bell-shaped helmets gleaming in the sun. “With a Targaryen on the Throne, and a Stark in the North, my rein will return peace to the land! Join me now! The road will be long, but it will not be in vain! For who owns the North?!”

At first, there was a stunned silence, with heads turning as soldiers and smallfolk alike seemed unsure of what to say. Daenerys whipped her head to Jon, who stared back at her but then looked down and nodded to the crowd, coaxing them.

“ _Who owns the North?!”_ she cried again.

“We do!!” they bellowed back in one voice, a resurgence of their fealty in the growing volume.

“We do!” she answered, reveling in the glory of it. “Show me now, Northerners! Show your queen as we head to the capital, that we stand as one body!” With both hands opened wide, she reminded them of her benevolence. “I know this war with the Night King and his army took a great toll on all of you and I have decided to let Stark men take some time to rest before you embark on your long journey. The men here preparing to fight – you must first mend your weariness, so that your will is strong when you march to meet me on the Kingsroad. In two days time, you will leave Winterfell with your commander, and we WILL take the throne and achieve our victory in the South, I make this vow to you!”

As an exclamation to the end of her speech, Drogon let out a rousing cry over the reach, and the people quailed at the sound of it, while the soldiers stood straighter, and then there were gasps and screams as Drogon crept over the roof and brought his head low enough to rest parallel to the open veranda. With great satisfaction, she saw Sansa Stark step back in fear, clutching the edge of her brother’s chair, as the eye of Drogon filled the open space beyond the railing. She stepped closer to her son and raised her hand to him.

“Drogon, _dēmatis_.”

He brought his wing up on his side, spanning it over the throng, and then his great talons took hold of the wooden railing, leaving her a ladder to his back.

“Your Grace! Surely that won’t hold! He’ll rip it apart!” Tyrion yelled, as she moved to the end of the balcony, where a small wall had been erected as a barrier.

“Dany, what are you doing?” Jon said in a low murmur, coming up close to grab hold of her arm. She snapped up her head and glared at him, and instantly he let go of her.

“I’ve done this dozens of times,” she said to them both, reaching up to take hold of the ridges around Drogon’s head as she climbed up onto his arm. She stood up on the edge of the railing and then leapt up to where Drogon’s arm extended to her. There was another shared cry from the crowd, a woman screaming, but Dany wasn’t afraid. Let them all see.

She climbed up his arm, the wind pulling at her, but she was too strong, using the hard spines along his face to pull her along, and then she had a foothold at Drogon’s shoulder and was able to climb upon his back. Sliding into her seat, she could look out over them all, over her domain, her many people. Cersei would soon learn that the Golden Company was no match for her armies and her dragons once she saw them at the city’s walls.

* * *

Jon gaped at the spectacle, watching with his nerves wired tight as Dany crawled up Drogon’s arm like a sprite shimmying up a tree. He feared she would fall any second and held his breath, until at last she was able to slide a boot upon the hard shelf of Drogon’s crown of spines, and he saw her mount the flattened neck behind his head. He exhaled in relief.

Looking down at the crowd, at his men, he didn’t know what to say, if he was supposed to make their farewells or send the soldiers away. There was no rallying cry in his throat, only the thick tar of dread. He had no idea what to make of what had just happened.

As Dany made a command to Drogon, the beast stayed in sight of them, its eye reticulating and blinking back at Jon, by the looks of it. Tyrion swore under his breath, and he saw Sansa look over at him with terror in her eyes. The beast’s head drew closer, sniffing them all, its great nostrils widening with the inspection. And then Jon saw Drogon turn and bring his head closer, its snout jutting straight into the veranda. Sansa let out a cry as she jerked back, Bran not moving at all, but Jon felt a growing calm come over him. He understood what Drogon wanted and had a moment to wonder if Dany was aware of it before the beast sniffed right at him.

“Jon, don’t!” Sansa called out, but Tyrion only shushed her.

“It’s alright, Lady Sansa. Your brother is safe.”

There was another cry from below, and more gasps, but Jon leaned up against the railing and ran his hand along Drogon’s scales, rubbing them with his gloves still on as though he were scratching Ghost behind his ears. Drogon made a pleased trilling sound at Jon’s touch, as a cat might purr, and then before anyone could remark on it, the dragon pulled its head away and they saw it rise. Then a sudden gust of hot air came blasting in under the roof, knocking him back a bit, and Sansa was thrown into his side as they felt the wings of Drogon snap upwards, bringing all the air with it. He slipped his arm around her waist and instinctively pulled her to him, to keep them both grounded as they watched Drogon take off to the skies, the small white-haired figure of the queen perched upon him.

“Are you mad?” she demanded of him when the dragon and Daenerys were far enough away. They saw Rhaegal swoop up next to Drogon as the two circled over the Unsullied, a core unit standing to the right of the host at the ready. The regiment, led by Grey Worm, would be part of the contingent accompanying her to White Harbor.

“Lord Tyrion was right, I wasn’t in danger,” Jon said, letting go of Sansa while she simultaneously pushed him away.

“Well, the Northmen look to be suitably motivated,” Tyrion said drolly, Varys looking decidedly worried beside him. The Hand to the queen waved down to the crowd and smiled woodenly. “Jon, are you going to say something to them?” he said through his teeth, his lips stiff.

Jon looked down upon the faces of his people, at a loss for how to follow the queen’s speech. “Of course,” he muttered to Tyrion, before donning his own smile and resting his hands on the railing, hoping the words would come.

It was later, after his party came down to the battlements to separate, a battalion of Stark soldiers marching underneath them, when he noticed Sansa hanging back. Tyrion and Varys were in deep conversation at one end of the allure. Bran had been taken to his room, while Jon met up with Davos to begin their next task. He’d broken up the gathering of the townsfolk and the residents of the castle and sent his forces to get their kits before the feast for the men that night. He and Davos still had to finish their last assignments for the troops. Arya came midway up the steps to join them as they descended, her expression determined.

“Jon, I need to speak with you,” she said, her hand on the hilt of her blade.

“All right. Ser Davos and I are heading to my office right now; you can talk as we walk.”

“I need to speak with you alone.”

He stopped and turned to her, before looking back up between the crenellations of the bulwark to see Tyrion striding over to Sansa, who stood looking over the landscape in deep thought as Drogon and Rhaegal swept the skies above her in another circling. Jon sighed at the sight. There was something going on between his two sisters and he wasn’t particularly keen to get involved, but he nodded his head to her before turning to Davos.

“Come by my office in another half hour and we’ll review the list of names Sam’s recorded, Ser Davos. My sister will escort me from here.”

“Aye, you’re in good hands then. My lady,” he nodded to Arya, smiling with affection.

Davos left them, and Jon took them to the next landing to turn them back towards the Great Keep, slipping an arm about her shoulders. “What is it?”

“I’m going with you to King’s Landing,” she stated easily.

He stopped them both, his surprise quick to surface with all that he’d witnessed in the last hour. “Arya, I need you here to watch over Sansa and Bran,” he said.

“Sansa’s got Brienne, she doesn’t need me. And Bran has got Podrick to push him around. You’re the one I’m worried about.”

Jon scoffed at the notion. “Arya, what are you going to do, be my personal guard? I’ll be fine. Why do you feel the need to go with us?”

She shrugged cavalierly. “I have business in the capital.”

“Business? What business? What do you think is going to happen when we get there?” Cersei’s days were numbered, as Dany’s speech had clearly foretold. It was no wonder Jaime Lannister wanted to stay behind in Winterfell.

But she took him by the hand and squeezed. “The question is, what do _you_ think will happen, Jon?” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I heard her speech.”

“Do what you want,” he told her. “But if you’re going to stay in my camp, you’ll need to follow my orders.”

He started walking again and they made their way into the keep, Arya beside him. She bent her head as she put her arms behind her. “I’m not staying with you. I’m leaving tomorrow on my own. I’ll be able to travel faster. I wanted to tell you first.”

Jon was thrown again by her insistence on doing this. “Why? I don’t want you going down there alone.”

“How do you think I got here?” she asked him sharply. But then she stopped to face him, a sudden shyness stealing over her. “Don’t worry, I won’t be by myself. I’m leaving with the Hound.”

“The Hound? Is that supposed to make me feel better?” He was a bit put out by it, in fact. How was the Hound a better traveling companion than him?

“I’m used to him,” she said. “We make a good team.”

He sighed, feeling stymied on all sides, with both his family and Dany. But Arya was as bullheaded as him and he knew he wouldn’t be changing her mind, and so he let it go. There was plenty else for him to be fretting over.

“Fine. But if you need me for anything, you know where to find us. We’ll be hard to miss.” He resumed walking, slinging an arm over her shoulder again. “Will you at least show up to the feast tonight?”

“I’ve seen the Hound drunk and he’s a right tosser,” she explained. “One of us will need to have their wits about them.”

“So don’t have any drink. Just show up and sit with me.” He smiled down to her encouragingly, remembering her words to him after the revelation in the godswood. “Let me give my little sister a proper sendoff.”

“I have to talk to Sansa,” she said dourly.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you there.” He flashed on Sansa’s pointed look to him after Dany had left. They hadn’t spoken properly since Bran had told them all his secret and she’d slapped Jon across the face, letting him know exactly how she felt about it. “She’s already cross with me.”

Arya seemed somber as she regarded him. “Sansa is only worried about you. She doesn’t want to lose you.”

Jon scoffed. “Right. Everyone is worried about everyone. But we still need to uphold our oaths, whatever Sansa might think.” She didn’t have two fire-breathing dragons to emphasize her point.

But Arya took hold of his hand again, scrutinizing his face with a critical eye. “Just … go easy on her.” She looked as if she had more to say on the matter for a beat, but kept it to herself as they strode into the corridor of his chambers. Once they arrived at his office door, he put both hands on either side of her shoulders and looked down into her eyes.

“Come to the feast,” he insisted. “Do this for me, Arya.”

His sister held his gaze for a moment, before she nodded with a small smile. “All right.”

******

“Did Tyrion have anything else to add before they left?”

Jon and Davos sat in his office going over the sheaf of parchment listing every man and able boy left in their infantry. After the battle with the dead, they had just over five thousand men between the Stark banners and the Knights of the Vale, with Yohn Royce reporting fewer than two thousand fit to march. Fortunately, there were still more garrisoned in the Eyrie, and arrangements had been made with Lord Arryn for another three thousand to meet them on the Kingsroad. The Dothraki left at Dragonstone would also be joining them just outside of the city. They were lucky to have some men in reserve after such heavy losses. Jon still had many wounded.

“He didn’t say much, and looked a bit fussed when we spoke, but he did indicate we weren’t likely to get any help from Dorne in time. I’m not sure what Yara Greyjoy intends to do during this fight, but at least the Iron Islands will be protected,” he said with some sarcasm. “How many ships does the queen have waiting for her after the disaster at Casterly Rock?”

“Not enough,” Jon answered. “Which is why so many Unsullied will be marching with us.” He gave Davos a measured look. “Things will be tense on this campaign to the south. We’ll need to keep an eye on the men.” He remembered all too well the constant fighting and bickering amongst his soldiers and the wildlings.

“And what of the free folk?” Davos said, as though sensing Jon’s thoughts. “I expect they aren’t quite willing to come to our aid again.”

Jon’s sigh was long as he leaned back in his chair. “There aren’t many of them left. Not in terms of fighting men, at any rate. And they’re not that eager to fight their men into extinction. They have mostly women and children they brought from the Gift to Winterfell. I don’t know where Tormund plans to take his people next.”

“Well, Ser Donnar is gone, so I’ve had a few of the other captains help me with assigning soldiers to their squads. Tomas is a good lad, a strong fighter, so he’ll stay in your guard. Kevven’s status has improved markedly after the injuries he sustained, and he’s assured me he’ll be ready by the time we leave. Little Gabe, dead. Torren, dead. Any preference on the men you want to keep close to you?”

Jon raked his eyes over the lists again, looking for one name and not seeing it anywhere. He put down a piece of parchment and tapped on a name written in Sam’s florid script. “You’ve got Willem here in one of the units, but … I don’t see his partner. Gareth is a much better swordsman. Put him in my guard, and add Willem in with the garrison we leave behind.”

It was petty of him, he knew, but Jon didn’t want the boy left with Sansa. He didn’t like to think of the two of them at all.

Davos gave him an odd look. “Your sister requested he stay here at the castle.”

That only made Jon more decisive. “Sansa isn’t in charge of our forces, I am.”

“I’ll see to it at once, then,” Davos said. He looked as if he was about to add something else, but then pulled the stack of parchments into a pile.

“What is it, Davos?”

“Nothing. Just … thinking about Daenerys’s words to the men this morning.”

Jon felt a spike of annoyance but didn’t quite know why; Davos was his advisor, after all, and he valued the man’s insight. “The men are tired. She wanted to inspire them, to rouse them into action. What is there to think about?”

“She believes in her destiny,” Davos mused, the look in his eyes turning inward. “And she expects to win. Stannis believed in his, too. Utterly. _‘We don’t choose our destiny, but we must do our duty, no? Great or small, we must do our duty’,”_ Davos seemed to be quoting. _“_ He said that to me, while I sat in my cell at Dragonstone. I can’t help but be reminded where doing his duty brought him.” He sighed, sadness brimming in his gaze as he stared at the table. “In the end, it destroyed him and his family.”

Jon felt a chill run through him, all the way down to his legs where his thigh throbbed with a dark pulse, but he countered Davos’s warning with his own remembrance. “He also said he didn’t punish men for bravery, he rewarded them. Daenerys does the same. She’ll reward the North’s loyalty when this is all over.”

He thought of the rest of the conversation from that time at Castle Black, before he’d been elected Lord Commander and everything had changed for him. _I’m a man of the Night’s Watch. I pledged them my life, my honour, my sword. I don’t know what I have left to give you._

 _You can give me the North,_ Stannis had said, offering to give Jon what he’d always wanted, tantalizing him with it before Jon had refused. _Lay your sword at my feet, pledge me your service and you’ll rise again as Jon Stark_. It had felt so huge then, and only pained him now to think on it. Daenerys had never made such an offer, even before discovering he was her nephew, but he pushed the thought away with all the rest.

“Aye, she shares many beliefs with Stannis, but he never birthed three dragons, nor walked through fire,” Davos said.

“And that’s probably a good thing,” Jon lobbed back. “How many more people might he have burned if he had? You and I both know that Stannis could be ruthless. As much as he espoused honour, he was hardly known for his good heart. The Lady Melisandre backed him because she thought she’d seen him in a vision, but she was wrong. In the end, who brought us through the long night? It wasn’t very long, was it? With her dragons as part of our defense.”

But it had also been on Stannis’s advice that Jon had spoken to Tormund and cemented his course to his ultimate fate, all of it leading him to where he was now. The many threads and complications of his life he had to wade through were overwhelming him again, and he rubbed at his eyes, almost thankful he’d have a reprieve for his overtaxed brain for a fortnight at least, as they made their way south. He could put the two women at the forefront of his thoughts to a shelf in the back and concentrate on the basics of command, the easy camaraderie of soldiers a welcome diversion.

Davos appeared introspective on Jon’s point but stood up after a moment, slapping his leg. “Well, then, I’ll get things sorted and send the men off to go get some Northern lovin’ before we take off,” he joked. “I suspect the brothel in town will be overflowing tonight.” He nodded to him. “I’ll see you later at the feast, then.”

At the mention of it, Sansa was instantly summoned to his thoughts as he nodded to Davos. He would need to speak to her soon.

But later, as they sat at the head table of the Great Hall and the din of merriment grew louder around him, Jon was lost to the amusement of watching Tormund hold court again. Jon had consumed quite a bit of ale at that point, the night in full swing, and Sansa sat to one side of him while Arya sat on the other, Bran at the end of the table. It was a Stark gala, all constraints which his people had held now seemingly lost to the winds with Daenerys and her dragons gone. The kegs continued to be tapped, their wellspring of beer flowing into the mouths of the men as they quaffed it with a debauched ferocity. It was all Jon could do to keep up.

“And then he sunk that hammer right into that bald fucker’s head, a Thenn three times his size at least!” Tormund crowed as he sat on the table in front of him, regaling the Northmen with more stories about Jon’s exploits. “You should have seen that cunt’s face! That’s what you get when you don’t take Jon Snow seriously!” His laughter was a bellyful as the others around them joined in, but Tormund pointed back at Jon with his enormous and elongated horn. “And that’s not all he can sink, ho ho!” He eyed the group hanging around the table. “We know he’s been sinking it deep into the dragon queen,” he chuckled with a lascivious glee, the rest of them darting their eyes towards Jon as they laughed. “No wonder she was so feisty this morning!”

“Tormund, no,” Jon warned, with a clearing of his throat, acutely aware of Sansa beside him. He gripped his friend by the arm. “Enough. You’re being disrespectful. There was no sinking going on in anything or anyone,” he explained drunkenly to their group, a sorry fact he had rued since the night of the Dothraki ceremony.

“Oh, you don’t have to play coy with us, little crow,” Tormund added for the benefit of his crowd. “We’re all friends here! Am I right? Ha ha ha ha, ha!” Then he focused on Jon’s face, his body weaving to and fro as he pointed a finger at him. “Did you do what I told you? Never put it in until she’s wet enough. That’s the key,” he told them all, with much seriousness.

Jon’s face burned as he felt Sansa’s white hot glare on his cheek. “Really. Tormund, no more of that.” He patted his back. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Did you see him pet that dragon?!” Tormund continued without missing a beat. “Like he was stroking a bitch’s pup. Like petting Ghost! Who here would have the balls to do such a thing?!”

Arya leaned over and whispered into Jon’s ear, her hand on his shoulder. “You need to tell your friend to shut up,” she said, giving him a warning look and a nod to Jon’s other side, and Jon had a moment to wonder why Arya was concerned for Sansa right then. He hadn’t wanted to consider the ramifications that would come in light of Dany’s blatant move in front of his people, essentially acknowledging their affair with the stroke to his face. It had jarred him greatly, but it was yet another item of many that he had to worry over, knowing how Sansa would likely react. The list was becoming too long.

He stood up and dropped a hand on Tormund’s shoulder. “That wasn’t what I had in mind when I said ‘ _something else’_ ,” he said with a fond grin to them all, before taking another swig of his ale.

Instead of changing the topic, however, Tormund turned in his seat and goosed Jon between his legs, grabbing on to his testicles under his coat. Jon choked in shock, ale spitting out between his lips and down his front as he tried to pull away, his arse poking backward.

“Massive, they are!” Tormund attested, gripping them tightly. “Like fucking steel!”

“Alright, that’s enough,” he said knocking Tormund’s hand away while trying to gather some composure. He looked helplessly to Davos and Tomas standing nearby looking on with amusement.

“Yes, I’m sure we can find something else to go on about besides Jon’s balls,” Sansa quipped darkly, her voice ringing out. The men clustered round their table looked surprised at first, shooting a glance towards Jon, before devolving into more boisterous and unhinged laughter.

“How about his little pecker?!” Tormund cried gleefully, and he was off again, raising his horn up in the air as his fermented goat’s milk splashed all over them.

“And how do you know about the size of King Jon’s pecker, Giantsbane?” Jerrod asked with a wide grin, his eyes glazed from too much drink.

“I saw him laid out on a table, dead as can be, and not a stitch on. That was before the red witch put her hands all over him, though,” he said wickedly, wiggling his great eyebrows, and Jon groaned inside at the poor timing, squeezing his eyes shut in his suffering.

“I don’t know, Giantsbane,” one of the men piped up. “If there was ever a great lover for Jon Snow, I think it might be you,” he japed, and the laughter rose up with screams and chortles as their hilarity consumed them.

“Well, he is pretty,” Tormund said in an earnest retort, appearing more serious than in jest for a second. “You never know. It does get cold here! And pussy isn’t always so warm in the south,” he lamented, looking almost sad for a moment.

Jon threw up his hands to Davos, appealing to the man for help as he shook his head with exasperation.

“Alright, alright, enough of that. We have ladies present,” Davos reminded Tormund and the men. “Let’s take that talk outside.”

“Never mind, Ser Davos,” Sansa said, standing up to her full height as the men around her looked up with sparkles in their eyes. “I think I’m done for the evening. Carry on, everyone. Our Warden of the North can handle a bit of ribbing. I have it on good authority.”

She held them rapt with a mere raise of her eyebrow, and Jon had a moment to grit his teeth to see them agog as they watched her every move. He saw Gareth among them, narrowing in on the lad’s shining face, an infatuation so clear in his adoring gaze. Jon would make sure he kept every man not at his post out of the Keep for the night.

“To the Lady of Winterfell,” someone shouted drunkenly and the rest of the men raised their cups and cheered as she took a last glug of her ale and pounded her empty cup down on the table. Sansa turned and left and they all watched her go, until she reached halfway down the hall, when he saw Brienne rise and follow her. What was she up to?

“More ale, my lord?” a young servant boy asked behind his shoulder. Jon glanced at him, the boy’s black hair reminding him of Hollis for a brief moment, but then he held out his tankard.

“Go ahead,” he said. The night could only get better if he drank enough, he reasoned.

* * *

_She came to him, dancing towards him as she unhooked her frock._

_“Jon Snow,” she whispered enticingly. “A man of his word.” She peeled open the front of her furs and Jon could see her breasts in the firelight, his eyes dragging downward as her coat continued to split wider, giving him a peek of the glittering silver down of her mons. “But what of Aegon Targaryen? What will he say?”_

_“You are my queen,” he droned, how many times had he told her already, would have to keep saying it, over and over, until she believed him, would let him forget who he was. And yet his eyes couldn’t tear away from the light between her legs, a growing flame there that would be so hot to the touch. He wanted to hold it in his mouth, feel the flames light him up. How did it feel as a man’s flesh melted away?_

_Giant blue eyes filled the room, swallowed him whole as they came up behind her, the flames that suddenly engulfed him the same blue colour, and Jon’s body felt ablaze as if a thousand lightning bolts had struck him at once, heat rolling off of him, and everything in him was alive, down to the ends of his hair, and his cock would shoot blue fire, and then she was there, wrapping her legs around him._

_“Dany,” he breathed. “Fuck me.”_

_Kisses rained down his back, the girls giggling in his ear, khal Jon, they whispered, and then a soft kiss at his neck, Dany kneeling down to take him in her mouth._

_Jon moaned, and then he had himself in hand, his body ready to give over to his pleasure. A hand crept up underneath his, holding his balls as he stroked himself off, another kiss to his shoulder, and it felt so good, felt so real…_

Jon snapped his eyes open, hearing the heaving of his breaths.

His sight adjusted to the dark quickly, the fire in the hearth filling his vision and the sounds of its crackles bringing him into the present. Instantly, he pulled his hand away from his cock, his elbow hitting something solid, the soft weight of someone behind him. He didn’t have to guess who it was, and suddenly Jon was wide awake, leaping out of his bed.

He rushed up to the hearth and turned around, to see her sit up smoothly, and his shock took hold of him, rendering him speechless at first. Jon opened his mouth to roar, but remembered where he was, remembered how many others were in the Keep with them.

“Sansa! What the _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?!” he hissed into the dark, his anger swooping down upon him as his shock faded. He was well aware that he stood naked, his cock probably still hard, but he didn’t care, he just needed her out of his bedchambers. “You need to leave.”

And a sense of redundancy flooded him, recalling the night this had all began, how Jon had awakened to find his mouth on his sister after she’d crawled into his bed.

But she sat calmly, as if she had every right to be there. She wore her smock, but the ties at her throat were loose, and the slit exposed the side of her breast to him as it had before, her hair wild and glowing and hanging down her shoulders. “I don’t want to,” she said brazenly.

“I don’t bloody care what you want,” he snapped, putting his hand to the mantle to steady himself, his drunkenness still fogging his head and making the room sway unevenly. “Get the fuck out right now.”

It had no effect, Sansa raising her chin in defiance as she watched him. “No. Not until you promise me.”

“Promise you what?” he demanded.

“That you won’t go.” Her shoulders pulled back, her tits out, and her back straight, her demeanor somehow regal even in this absurd setting.

His mouth hung open at first, his mind boggled by her words. “Are you daft?” he finally asked.

“Let her go fight Cersei and they can battle each other for the crown. I don’t care about either of them. Whoever’s left, we’ll deal with them then. It worked out well for Cersei.”

“Sansa,” he barked. “This is a pointless endeavor. It is _done_. We’re leaving the day after tomorrow and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

“For what?” she cried. “So you can go throw yourself on your sword for her? Why? What is this need you have to toss yourself into every battle until you end up dead?!”

“You’re being ridiculous,” he growled. “I swore an oath, Sansa. That actually means something to some people.” He raised his hands in frustration. “This is how an alliance works! She helped us and now we return the favour. I don’t know why this is so difficult for you to understand! I thought you were smarter than us all,” he said snidely. He waved a hand at her attire. “And what were you planning on doing? Seducing me into committing treason? Into reneging on my vow?”

“I hardly need to seduce you, Jon,” she said with eyes flashing. “What, you think that show you put on for me the other day in this room was to let me know how you never think about this?” She scoffed at him, a dark chuckle following. “I know what you need.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” he said darkly.

“Don’t I? Well, I suppose I didn’t know that one detail about you being my cousin, seeing as you neglected to tell me about it for weeks,” she accused. “Letting me go on feeling guilty for wanting to have my half-brother share my bed. And for that, I _do so_ appreciate your thoughtfulness.”

“Don’t act surprised by it,” he sneered. “You and I know both know that you would have taken this as some … _permission_ , some sign that we could continue on. And obviously, I was right, or you wouldn’t be here flashing your tits at me.” He glanced around for his clothes, feeling entirely too angry to have this argument in the nude. Finding his breeches slung over his chair he went to collect them, glaring at Sansa as he walked. “You were jealous of Daenerys. That’s all this is.”

“Jealous?!” Sansa flung back his furs and came towards him, sliding to the edge of his bed. The affront was ablaze in her face. “And what should I be jealous of, exactly? That she can lead you around by your nose? You don’t love her.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he swore, a hand to his forehead as he tried to absorb Sansa’s insanity. “You’re going to tell me what I feel now? What are you even talking about, Sansa?” He went to grab hold of his pants, his fury only growing.

“I know you’re not sleeping with her anymore. You haven’t been in her bed since the moment you found out.”

Jon froze. His hand hanging in the air, shock taking hold of him as though he'd jumped into a cold lake.

Slowly, he turned to her, feeling his face stricken by the news. His eyes burned as he stared at her face, saw that she viewed this as some smug notion of a victory.

“What?” The cold ate at him, seeping into his voice. “You were spying on me?” And a deadly rage crept inside his chest, burning in his belly. He snickered wickedly, acid in his throat. “But of course you did, I know how it’s your favorite thing.”

Eyebrows rose in a challenge. “I didn’t spy on anyone, Jon. I have people to do that for me.” Then suddenly Sansa was out of his bed, walking towards him, and instinctively, Jon reared back from her, taking his breeches in hand as he backed towards the fireplace.

“And it’s a good thing they did,” she continued. Disgust was laid bare in her features, as she glanced down to his thighs and then back at his face accusingly. “The reports I got. Describing the wicked things you let her do to you, and you think that was _love?_ ” she derided, her scorn as thick as the snows. “The gods only know what she did to you on that island, and on the way over here.” She came up close enough to put her hand on his thigh where he’d used his belt, and he instantly smacked it away. “You think I didn’t notice this?” she screamed in a harsh whisper, waving at his leg. “You let her _cut_ you?”

“It’s my business, Sansa. You had no right.” He stepped away from her across the stone, feeling the heat of the fire behind him scrape the hair on his legs.

She gaped back at him, aghast. “It’s your _business?_ ” she echoed in disbelief. “Right, because why would I think this has anything to do with me? You only bent the knee to her and tied all of our people to that bitch! I mean, what was that ranting this morning even about?” She shook her head in pity. “And she made sure to mark her smell all over you, didn’t she? In full view of everyone, like you’re her property, her little plaything that she gets to march around.”

“That’s utter horseshit,” he said. “You’re being overly dramatic, as usual. You know she’s my family, Sansa. I know it’s hard to admit, but she is and she has a stake in this.”

But Sansa’s eyes widened. “Oh, I’m fully prepared to admit it, but you’re the one who wants to hide it from everyone, Jon. You’re protecting her.”

“I’m trying to protect all of us,” he declared.

“No, you and Tyrion both, you fear her. You really think she belongs on the throne? How will she be any different?”

“Different to who? Cersei? _Joffrey?_ You really believe she’s that kind of person?”

But Sansa only scoffed again, rolling her eyes with the full heaping of her derision. “As if Cersei’s our only option. Why do you want to bury this, Jon? Who you really are? Do you know what this could mean for the North?”

He strode away from her with a deep groan, away to his desk, but Sansa followed him. “I don’t want it, Sansa. We’ve had this discussion before. I’m not going to sit on the Iron Throne, so put that notion out of your head once and for all.” He flashed eyes to his door. “And keep your voice down.”

“Since when have you ever been concerned with what you _want_?” she snapped at him. “Are you telling me that being in the Night’s Watch was your dream? Or was it the only option you had open to you with any prospects, where you could make something of yourself even as a bastard? Father sent you there to keep you away from Robert and anyone who might find out who you really were, knowing full well what that place was. And how long did it take before they made you Lord Commander?”

“Sansa, you need to stop this right now,” he demanded, his rage a pulsing heartbeat full of thundering blood behind his eyes. “Enough.”

“I know why you let her hurt you, Jon. I know why you’re drawn to her. But you don’t have to keep punishing yourself. You didn’t even do anything wrong.”

“Sansa! Stop it! Or I swear to you, one more word comes out of your mouth – ”

“You’ll what?” she threw back.

Jon stopped talking, dumbfounded for a moment. “Excuse me?”

“Or you’ll – what, throw me against the wall?” she asked boldly, eyes widened in an imitation of naiveté. “You’ll beat me to the ground? Slice me up with a blade? What are you going to do to me, Jon, that hasn’t been done to me already?”

Jon gaped back at her in horror. “Why would you say such horrible things? Of course I would never hurt you. You _know_ that,” he said in outraged shock. All the things he had done for her, for months, giving in to every desire she asked of him.

“Then stop threatening me!” Fear shone in her face for a second. 

“I’m not _threatening_ you! I just want you to stop talking! I’m angry, all right?” He tried to walk away from her again but she hooked him by the arm, and Jon ripped it instantly out of her reach. But she came up behind him, her hand on his hip as she led him back up against the wall, Jon trying to calm himself down.

“Good,” she told him, and Jon snapped his head up to face her, again shocked by her boldness.

 _“Good?”_ His rage only surged, his whole body shaking with it.

“Yes, good. _G_ _et_ angry,” she demanded, pushing him. “It’s about time you showed some signs of life. The gods know I’d rather see you in a fit of rage then _whatever_ has been walking around here like some mumbling corpse for _weeks_ now. And I’m bloody sick of him!”

Jon felt the rage rush through him like the inferno that had swept over the horde, the way it had rushed from Rhaegal’s mouth at the slightest push from his mind. It swelled inside him until he feared he couldn’t control it, the way his bloodlust would take over in the ultra-violence of battle, as he sliced his way through bodies like a beast on a rampage. He willed his body to calm down, to take deep breaths, lungfuls of it, as he glared at Sansa seething with such furious indignation, everything in him wanting to show her that she hadn’t any power over him. After everything he’d given her.

“You need to watch what you say,” he told her coldly, not fucking around anymore.

Sansa’s eyes filled with tears as she shook her head with her bitter disappointment. “You cut yourself in half just so you can look up to her,” she said.

He stormed away from her to march back to the hearth but she followed behind him, and Jon felt desperate, ready to pull out his hair by the roots and scream to the heavens while she stalked him all over his room. “What do you _want_ from me, Sansa?” he begged, turning to her as she backed him into another wall.

A tear escaped her lashes, tracking down her face, but it had no affect on him. “I don’t … want you to _go_ ,” she gasped. “Don’t do it, Jon. Don’t give your life for her. Stay here.” Her voice dropped into a plaintive whisper. “You told me once that you wanted me to live. And I want that for you, too. I want you with me.”

“I can’t do that,” he said dully. “I can’t give you everything you ask for.”

She stared at him for a moment, but then her hands delicately reached up to her shoulders, where she peeled back the tops of her smock. The slit down her front widened as she dragged the shift down, exposing her breasts to him, until it was lowered far enough that she could push it off her arms, easing it past her hips. Jon kept his eyes on her face as the smock dropped to the floor, swallowing thickly as she took a step closer.

“Jon,” she whispered to him, her eyes on his mouth. “I know how to make you feel better. And you know it, too.”

He turned away from her before she could kiss him, but she pressed her mouth to his neck, instead, her lips on the ticking pulse there as his heart beat in his throat. “Sansa, stop it,” he said again, pushing his back further into the wall.

He felt her fingers ghost over his hip making his body jolt. He shot out his hand to hold her by the wrist, keeping her from touching him, his breaths coming heavy now. “I’m serious, Sansa. You need to stop. Put your nightdress back on and then leave. We won’t talk of this again.”

“No,” she whispered, pressing her nakedness against his. “I want you.”

Jon couldn’t breathe, so many emotions wrestling him to the ground that he felt battered by them. He tilted his head back with his eyes to the ceiling, trying to ignore her lips on his skin, her tongue licking the hollow in his neck.

“I said no,” he tried again, his voice sounding much shakier this time.

“We’re not even brother and sister,” she reminded him, still in that ghostly whisper, another press of her lips to the flesh over the bone of his clavicle. She brushed a finger over his nipple and he jerked again, sucking in his breath. The longing from his dream rose up under her fingers, the longing and desire he’d been feeling for weeks and had buried deep in himself. But he couldn’t push her away, wouldn’t let her turn him into Ramsay, afraid he might bruise her, might hurt her. His bloodlust simmered yet it was still there, under his skin, a need to kill something, fuck something, tear something apart, and he shook with it, remembering the way he’d taken her in her chambers – in Ned Stark’s chambers – and the lie of his entire life was there to mock him again, lord Eddard laughing in the corner at the state of his nephew’s life and the complete shit he’d made of it.

Jon didn’t even have to look to know he was erect for her, an eerie calm settling over him. Then Sansa wrapped her hand around him, her fingers hot, and Jon snapped up both of her wrists this time, holding up her hands in the air as he locked eyes with her, his will boring into the blue striations that stared back at him.

“You don’t own me,” he told her, the ice in his words as cold as a thousand shattered White Walkers.

Her eyes were doll eyes, wide and bright and knowing. “Neither does she,” Sansa hissed.

Then Jon’s hand was in her hair, grabbing fistfuls of fiery copper threads as it glowed through his fingers, the fire from the hearth casting its light over her, and he dragged her head back as she opened his mouth for him. He kissed her and everything went black for a moment, blue fire seeping into his eyes when he reopened them, before he was walking her backwards, toward his bed, his hands on either side of her face as she moaned and whimpered against his lips, in his mouth, her tongue quick to hook with his, and then he felt her long legs crossing behind him as she leapt up to wrap herself around his body, and he felt all of their history at once, while he carried her to his bed until his knees smashed into its frame, and he dropped her down, her arms around his neck to pull him with her as she always did. She writhed under him, her legs still crossed at his back as she used the power in them to draw him closer, and Jon couldn’t stop it, couldn’t turn back the rushing wave that broke upon them, as much as he wanted this fever to abate, to leave them free of it once and for all.

He eased back his hips, nudging her thigh wider as he pushed down on a bent knee, and then Jon was inside her, thrusting into her as deep as he could.

“Oh!” She cried out in a sharp groan, pain like lightning across her face, but Jon didn’t stop, didn’t slow.

“Put your legs higher,” he instructed, gravel in his throat. He took her by her wrists again and put them over her head, pinning her down. “Tell me you want this,” he said, thrusting into her sharply again.

“I do, I want you,” Sansa gasped, her tears like stars twinkling on her face. “I love you, Jon.”

“Shut up,” he snarled, his hips moving faster as he rocked into her. “You don’t. It’s not real.”

“Yes, it is. I think about you all the time. I know you need me. I would do anything for you – ah!” Another gasp caught in her throat as he began to fuck her harder.

“Stop it,” he pleaded, feeling as if he were about to go mad. This couldn’t be happening.

“I love you,” she repeated with a sob, her anguish in her voice, tears sliding down the sides of her temples.

“No, you don’t,” he insisted, and that desperation climbed in his chest again as talons from inside ripped his flesh into bloody strips, cracked him open, and Jon couldn’t understand this, why this sickness wouldn’t lessen its grip on them, holding them so tightly that he thought he might break apart against her. “You can’t, Sansa,” he growled with the beast that lived in him, pounding into her. If he had to fuck this out of them he would do it, until she hated him, if need be.

“Jon, you know this is right. We were always meant to be here for each other. You think this is just by coincidence that you’re Daenerys’s neph – mmmph!”

Jon had put his hand over her mouth to shut her up, he couldn’t listen to her a moment longer, but then he saw her eyes widen in fear, and he felt sick, knowing what he was dragging from her past, hating himself. He took his hand away and put his mouth on hers again, devouring her, her fists gripping his hair, the two of them locked in this battle as their bodies moved in the violence that fed them, Sansa lifting her hips to meet with his, stroke for stroke.

And as the bed rocked, a screech from the floor as the legs moved them an inch, Jon tried to slow them down, remembering that this wasn’t Dany, this was the sister he had known all her life, since the day she was born, and he wouldn’t shoot his seed in her. He dropped his head down and suckled a nipple, kneading it with his teeth until she gasped, while a hand to the crown of his head pressed him down and she arched her back off of the bed. He yanked out of her hold and then slipped out of her cunt, getting up on his knees. Sansa blinked up at him, half bewildered, half wanton with her insatiable need.

“Turn over and get up.” His voice was deep and it was cold, even though he burned and burned. She started to roll over and Jon smacked her ample arse, making it jiggle. “Come on. You know what you like.”

She got up on all fours and turned to watch him over her shoulder, a tender vulnerability in her eyes as it held a wordless expectation. Jon couldn’t look at her face anymore, so he wrenched her thighs apart and dove into her arse. He heard her sharp moan, and his hands slid up her back, pushing her down, so he could split her wider, his tongue in her arsehole, because this was where Jon deserved to be. He coated her with his spit, used his finger to loosen her as she thrust herself back on him, and then he had two in her, fucking her with them in a frenzy.

“Jon,” she murmured as he moved up behind her, and then his fingers were gone to be replaced by his cock, because this was what Sansa wanted, this was what she was willing to destroy him for, and then he entered her and that blissful nothingness swept him over and Jon stared into the dark, stared into the void, and his body simply moved, no thought at all.

He pummeled her, his grip around the back of her neck, her body long and sinewy in the firelight, the snaps from the hearth as it ate at the wood soothing him, and Jon crept his hand to the front of her, stroked that part of her with a familiarity that had been ingrained into his fingers, Sansa’s pleasure a rhythmic beat that lived within him. Jon leaned forward, pressing himself to her back so that their flesh slicked against each other with their sweat, and he gripped her shoulders, thrusting into her, rubbing her sex, until he was on top of her and it was just this movement, his hips rotating to the sound of drum beats, back and forth, grinding into that arse, and the girls were giggling, kissing his shoulders and his back, and his sister gasped and writhed under him as she was pressed to the bed, her moan muffled by his pillow, and she wasn’t his sister, and Jon went down, and down, further into the darkness.

“Jon, I’m close,” she hissed after a while, a panic in her voice, and he pulled her back with him, his hands scooped to the front of her shoulders until they were both back on their knees. A cry was wrenched from her and Jon shushed her softly, soothing her, sliding a hand over her breast.

“Here, bite down,” he whispered to her, moving his forearm in front of her in offering, the hand curled in a fist, and then Sansa opened her mouth and pressed her lips there, groaning into him until he felt it crawl under his skin all the way up to his shoulder and into his neck, flaring up the back of his head. They moved faster, and he felt that rushing inside, the fire swamping him below his hips, a lit fuse that raced up his back, and her teeth bit into his flesh as her groans escalated, Jon holding her closer, goading her with his lips to her ear.

“Harder, it’s alright. We have to be quiet.”

And her teeth punctured skin until he felt blood dripping down and it was good, it was fine, and they moved faster, Sansa moaning into him as she bit down on him like a piece of bark between a soldier’s teeth as they cut off a limb, and Jon whispering to her, guiding her. Then it was just his body moving, that bliss filling his head like spun sugar, and it rushed through him, and he heard Sansa cry out, but it was alright, the sound was trapped in his flesh. He bent his forehead to the knob of her spine and he saw giant eyes open, staring back at him, their dilating pupils splitting those orbs in two, and Jon was lost to them as he snapped his hips, that momentary elation already subsiding as his seed left him.

When they were done, Jon rolled onto his back staring at the black shiver of the stone above him. He heard Sansa’s sighs as she moved and curled into his side and he sat up with a lurch, turning to sit at the edge of the bed. He blinked at the fire, the flames rushing into his eyes, Drogon opening his mouth, and then there was just the two of them, in his room, the cold returned, and a bell sounded its dirge in a reverberating gong. For a moment, Jon thought it might be coming from the bell tower, but then he realized the gong was inside him, filling him, its death knell tolling. He saw Dany in the fire of his hearth, sitting astride Drogon as she raised her fist.

What had he done?

The bell gonged, ringing through him so hard his vision wobbled, and Jon stared into the dark, a hand sliding up from his side to cover his chest, to rub his wounds on his belly as fingers explored him. Sweet lips pressed to his shoulders, and the girls giggled, but then Sansa spoke. He could hear her tears.

“I was so scared for you. Thank you, Jon.”

“What?” he heard a strange voice ask, somewhere in the room.

She sighed against his skin, kissing his back. “I didn’t want you in the capital. Not until we’re ready. It’ll be alright, you’ll see.” She held him to her, and she kissed his neck, whispering into his pores.

“We can have it all.”

Then she was sniffing back her distress, a calm resolve returned to her. “You’ll stay with me, right? You won’t go down there? Promise me, Jon.”

“I’ll do as you ask,” a voice said.

And he turned his head, saw her copper hair burnished bright as it hung down over his shoulder like a creeping vine that would cover him completely if he let it. “Sansa,” he heard himself say. “You should get back to your own chambers. It’ll be morning soon.”

More sniffles, as she ran fingers through his hair. “You’re right. I should get going. Hand me my shift.”

Jon stood up on shaky legs, but he took a beat to steady himself, and then he was picking it up, handing it to her, and she slipped it over her head, and then she was kissing his cheek, her joy flapping about him like a hundred butterfly wings, soft and silent.

“Goodnight, Jon. We have much to do in the morning.”

She left him, he heard the servant door close quietly, and as soon as it did, Jon sprang into action, finding his clothes scattered about as he got dressed. Blood still rolled down his arms and he had to wrap a cloth round it to sop it up, tying it off before sliding down a sleeve. When he had his boots on, he strode to his door and stepped out into the hall, a low whistle sounding from between his teeth.

He heard footsteps and then a guard came rushing around a corner to make his way down to him.

“Yes, Lord Jon,” the lad asked in hushed tones.

“Go wake Ser Davos,” Jon told him. “Tell him to rouse all the men and then meet me in the Great Hall. I want every soldier up with the dawn. Wake Lord Royce as well, and tell him the same. Someone needs to inform the Unsullied’s captains as well.”

“My lord?”

Jon nodded to him. “Go. We’ll be leaving for King’s Landing before noon.”


	40. IV. Dragonstone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some milestones to call out here. The biggest fic I'd written previously ended at 39 chapters. This has officially become the longest story I've ever written, with over 400k words. Also, this will be reaching 50k hits soon, once this chapter is posted, I imagine. So thank you so much for that, dear readers. With over 600 likes, this is definitely the most popular thing I've done on this site. Appreciate the comments, to all of you, even if I don't directly reply. I am feeling like I need to keep some of my thoughts veiled as we move forward. 
> 
> We'll be in Dragonstone next chapter.
> 
> Credit to Benioff and Weiss again for more dialogue I'm using out of 8x04. 
> 
> My thanks to mimreads and firesign for their notes on this very long chapter. It definitely went through a few edits.
> 
> tw: thoughts of self harm

**.xl**

  
  


Davos sat by the fire warming himself as the chatter around him grew thicker. 

It was early afternoon, but Jon had called a halt to the train of men and wagons and horses to take a break and afford the host some sustenance. The group around the fire was mostly comprised of Jon’s guard as they huddled for warmth from the rolling icy winds coming off The Bite’s shore, but a few Unsullied had joined them, listening to Kevven explain the history of the crannog and the moving Greywater castle with a deep interest in their faces. Campfires burned all the way down the line, for at least a mile - Stark men, the Vale men, Unsullied, and Dothraki riders boxed into their own divisions.

They were a day away from Moat Cailin, traveling on the causeway, and a deep uneasiness had settled in Davos along their route, the least of which was derived from the bogs of the Neck threatening to pull them under if they so much as took a step off their narrow road. Winter snows hadn’t made the mud any easier. The horses whinnying from the rear only increased his agitation, but the main factor for his worries stood about a hundred feet in front of him, talking in low murmurs to Yohn Royce as they conversed near one of the alder trees covered with its slimy carpet of strange moss glowing green with a vivid quiver.

Jon looked grim as Royce talked, the Vale commander waving an arm about as he gesticulated the importance of whatever was on his mind. Davos kept glancing back at them to take in Jon’s expression, which hadn’t changed at all as he listened. Even once he seemed to make a determination, nodding and speaking with his head partially bent, there was a dark shadow that hung in his features, the bruised circles under his eyes only emphasizing it.

Royce nodded, and then oddly, pat Jon on the shoulder before walking away. Davos frowned. It was becoming apparent to more than the likes of him that Jon was adrift, unable to take comfort in a simple thing like a warm fire or a midday meal. Davos had keenly noted that the young warden hadn’t been eating much at all since they’d left and would often take solitary walks as the men dined. Jon had the look of a man who was caught between fleeing one place while not particularly joyed to be reaching the other.

Or was Jon fleeing some _one,_ Davos had to wonder. Every time that Davos had brought up Jon’s family, or his sister, the Lady Sansa, Jon would shut down all discussion and walk away. It was disconcerting to see him so removed from everyone; the men all felt it, too, as Davos noticed Kevven kept giving the same worried glances in Jon’s direction as he talked.

It was while one of the Unsullied asked about the croaking they heard all through the night that Davos watched as a raven flew into their camp, landing on a curled branch of the tree where Jon leaned. They all heard the raven caw, heads turning, and then it did it again, appearing to be looking down directly at Jon. Davos spotted something wrapped in its leg.

“Is that raven carrying a scroll, my lord,” one of the men questioned, sitting up straighter from the log he used as a bench.

They watched the raven hop closer to Jon, and then caw again, almost angrily. Jon took note of it, sighed deeply, and then turned away from it, walking towards them where they bowed their bodies to the flames. But as Jon came up, the raven left its perch and with a great flapping of wings, swooped over Jon’s head and dove straight at Davos. He reared back in alarm, but the bird circled over his head, and then with a brush of feathers against his ear, Davos felt it land on his shoulder. He stared dumbfounded, as more men from their line made their way over to see what the fuss was about. Up close, the bird blinked at him, its eyes like opals, making Davos feel strange in its presence.

“Ser Davos, I think he’s figured out who here is likely to give up his bread,” Tomas cracked, as the raven squawked again. “He’s a persistent little bugger, isn’t he?”

“It’s not food it's looking for,” Davos said, reaching up to remove the scroll from around its stick leg. “How in the seven hells did it find its way here?” Their last stop at an inn had been in the Barrowlands. Davos recalled that there had been a message waiting for Jon when they’d arrived there as well, for there was no mystery who this scroll was meant for. 

“Eets eyes. They are different,” an Unsullied said, the man’s smooth face unperturbed, and they all turned quiet as they waited for Davos to unlace the raven’s post. The bird appeared blind, but Davos knew that wasn’t true at all. He pulled the scroll away and took a look at the impression pressed into the red wax.

Davos stood up and held it out to Jon, the raven’s claws digging into his leather coat to stay grounded on its perch. “It’s your sister’s seal,” he explained. “It seems Lady Sansa has somehow found you.”

Jon stared blankly at the scroll clasped between Davos’s only fingertips, and Davos felt a chill run up his back to see the deadened look in his lord’s eyes. Something had happened, but he had no idea what. The scroll was snatched out of his hand, Jon cracking the seal quickly and unfurling the scroll with a glaring disinterest. The raven cawed again and Davos snapped his head up to see it watching Jon carefully, the opal eyes blinking as it quirked its head. Jon glanced down at the words written there barely shy of a second before he stepped forward, the men leaning to their sides as Jon walked between them, and then promptly dropped the scroll into the fire. The group stayed hushed as the parchment blackened quickly, rolling into itself like a pillbug before spitting its ash silently, and the raven screeched louder in Davos’s ear, as though in admonishment of the action. 

Then queerly, Jon looked straight at the raven. “Tell her I’m not interested in hearing it,” he said to it, no change to his solemn face. “Wake up now, Bran,” he directed, not unkindly, and the men all looked at each other uneasily. 

The raven cawed once more, a sorrowful note this time, but then it leapt from Davos’s shoulder and flapped away into the air. It left them there, soaring over the marsh and the forest to disappear after a moment. The image of Jon’s brother came to him, Davos recalling him as he’d been brought out of the godswood, the boy’s eyes rolled back like the same two white opals. He didn’t quite understand the lad’s gift, but Jon had mentioned before the battle that his brother was able to warg, and Tormund had filled in Davos with the details of their abilities. Every day, Davos grew more comfortable with the magical world. He wondered what Matthos would make of it all.

Jon turned and walked away from their camp in long strides, heading towards the line and his horse. Davos followed after him, moving quickly to catch up.

“Jon, is everything alright?” he asked blatantly, as they moved out of earshot of the men around the fire. 

“Of course everything’s alright,” Jon replied mechanically, still striding forward. “Why would you have cause to think any different, Davos?”

“Perhaps we can have a word? In private?”

Jon didn’t stop to look at him, but Davos could see his jaw clench, staring straight ahead with a determination born out of distress. He nodded once and then pointed forward.

“We’ll talk on our horses, then. Away from the others.”

Davos walked with Jon to where Royce was talking with one of his captains, both men turning to take notice of them.

“Lord Royce, Ser Davos and I will be at the front of the line for the rest of the day. We’re riding ahead for a bit. Give the men another twenty minutes to finish their meal and then get them on the move to catch up.”

“I’ll see it done, my lord.” Royce flashed a discerning look in Davos’s direction, as though he were cautioning him, but Davos paid him no mind. The man didn’t know Jon well enough to understand him.

It was after they were a few hundreds yards away from the rest that Davos began speaking again, the wind shuddering through him so hard that Davos was thankful for the warmth of the beast between his legs. Their horses ambled along the causeway with heads bent against the cold.

“So that was your brother bringing you that scroll?” he asked outright.

“I told you, Bran has abilities beyond our comprehension. I think everyone has been exposed to his gift well enough by now.”

“Seems to me, that message was quite important if he felt the need to bring it to you himself,” Davos suggested, watching Jon’s reaction closely.

Jon sighed as he kept his gaze fixed ahead. “What are you getting at, Davos?”

“Was there word from Winterfell we should be concerned about?”

“If there was anything in that letter that _we_ should be concerned with, don’t you think I would have said so?”

“Apologies, Jon. Of course you would. I’m prying, I know, but I’m thinking of you in this matter. Is there something … something you want to discuss?” It remained quiet so Davos pressed on. “I sense a tension in you, in regards to your family. Did something happen before we left?”

“Why do you say that?” he asked, his words flat.

Davos recalled their hasty departure. “The men thought they’d be getting another day to rest up, but you seemed to want to leave rather quickly.”

“I simply reconsidered the period of time it would take to actually get there with our current numbers. We couldn’t afford to lounge about for another day. The situation in the south is unstable, and the longer we’re up north, the more likely things will only get worse where she’s at. It’s going to take us another week just to make our way through the Neck.”

But it was the mention of Daenerys that pricked up his ears and he bent forward in his saddle, trying to get Jon to look at him.

“You’re worried about the queen? What do you think might happen?” 

Davos’s thoughts had been on her, too, as he kept replaying his conversations with Stannis over in his head. The panic he’d felt when Stannis had insisted Selyse and Shireen stay with him as he marched to Winterfell. That ball of worms which had sat high in his gut when he’d had to leave camp had returned and Davos didn’t know what he should do about it, afraid to repeat the mistakes of the past.

“I think she’s in a vulnerable position,” Jon said tersely.

The idea that Jon felt this was intriguing. “She has two dragons with her. Vulnerable is not the first word that comes to my mind.”

“She’s already lost one. They are not invincible; we know that. It’s not a … it can be a dangerous place, on the back of a dragon. I could have fallen off countless times as I fought with the Night King. Rhaegal could have crushed me when we crashed to the earth. And she is alone.”

Davos wondered again at the contents of the letter Jon had received, if the queen had been the subject. The frostiness between Daenerys and the Lady Sansa had been felt by all, and Jon looked squarely caught in the middle of it. And it was not a good look. The conversation around the campfires could often veer into the prurient when it came to both women, but the men knew well enough to keep their commander in their sights and their voices low. Davos had already reprimanded a few of them, the gossip centered around Jon and the queen oft times growing vulgar. Tormund had certainly given them all fodder to parse and snicker over before he’d fucked off to Castle Black.

“Perhaps it is a good thing you didn’t get your way then,” he commented to Jon. “Rhaegal is with her instead of with us. I saw your move.”

Jon scowled at the remembrance. “I was wrong to make the assumption. Having Rhaegal above us would have only made the men more anxious than they already are.”

So Jon had noticed that. It occurred to him, however, that the men might have found the dragon a comfort. Davos considered the strategy behind Jon’s initial impulse. “Still - it would make sense to want to divide them, make them less of a target. Varys said the Golden Company were already manning the city walls, ferried there by Euron’s fleet. But where are his ships now? Cersei might have an eye towards her offense.”

Jon finally turned to him, the look on his face even more dour. “I have considered that.”

“Your sister took issue with our forces leaving so soon, but I get the sense she is unhappy with this campaign in general. Is she worried that we won’t defeat Cersei’s armies?” 

Jon looked away. “I don’t care to discuss my sister,” he said with as much chilliness as the winds that cut through them.

But Davos felt a need to press it. “I understand. And that is your prerogative, of course. But I only mean to discern if she has information which might be relevant to our cause.”

“Sansa doesn’t know anything,” Jon said abruptly. “She has no information, she only has feelings. And feelings have no place in war. Can we talk about something else, please?” he snapped.

The anger in Jon glimmered for just a second before the young lord sheathed it quickly, molding his face into complete vacancy as Davos watched. The words brought Davos back to that moment on the ship to Dragonstone after they’d met with Cersei, standing at the bow with Jon as he’d said something similar, and the entire scene played over in his thoughts, recalling the fear in Jon’s face as they’d talked of his sister then as well. _Aye, she does love me. And I don’t know what to do about that._ The past suggestion that Lady Sansa might have been sharing improper feelings with her brother surfaced for Davos anew and he considered for one terrible instance the notion that Jon might have acted on it.

“We can talk about whatever you like,” Davos replied carefully. He looked back to see that the host was on the move again in the distance, and immediately slowed his horse. Jon noticed their gait and slowed with him until Davos pulled up on his reins, both of their horses coming to a standstill.

Jon stared off into the distance as he responded, his eye on some future meeting point with his lover queen. “If it’s all the same to you, Davos, I’d rather not talk at all.”

* * *

Varys stood at the open window of his room watching the sky with a foreboding sense of disaster looming over him.

He knew what was coming. He felt it in every part of him. As sure as he’d seen the path of Aerys’s growing instability. He hadn’t predicted Jaime Lannister’s sudden moment of conscience back then, it was true - the young knight moving his hand against his king - but Varys had understood with clear eyes that the need for power stewing in a deteriorating mind, one which found threats in every corner, could only lead to the suffering of the people. And he was about to see it again.

_We will storm the city my queen. We will kill your enemies, all of them._

Grey Worm had voiced what Daenerys had been thinking, Varys could see it in the wheels and cogs spinning behind her eyes. The growing doubt he’d felt with her every utterance of raining down fire and blood, her impatience with her advisors beginning to show more and more as she chafed against their reins, and their own weariness at having to repeat their cautions over and over again. Neither he nor Tyrion had ever held her attention as much as Jorah had, and his absence was felt more acutely the closer they got to the throne.

_This is a mistake,_ he’d told her after they’d returned to the fortress, Daenerys having witnessed another one of her children fall from the sky. He had promised her he would tell her to her face when she was failing, and yet even though he’d kept to it and said as much, she continued to find fault with his counsel, a fiery righteousness in her stance on the city’s ultimatum.

_Do not become what you have always struggled to defeat._ How could she not see it? And for that matter, how could Tyrion be so blind to the signs? But the queen had persisted in her cause.

_I’m here to free the world from tyrants. That is my destiny, and I will serve it. No matter the cost._

It had chilled him to the bone to hear her say it. No matter the cost. If the cost was innocent children being burned alive, how did she justify that as a world free from tyranny? Tyrion had pleaded with her, and his pleas grew more desperate by the day, that they should find another way. Varys struggled to give her options, but Tyrion’s unique relationship to Cersei at least gave them a chance. If she could be made to see that there was no way out, that her life and the life of her unborn child were in danger, perhaps a deal could be made. They needed cooler heads to prevail and for a moment, as he argued with Daenerys, Varys had flashed on Jon Snow in the Dragon Pit, telling Cersei the truth without any thought to himself or his own gain. But the queen had given her verdict.

_Speaking to Cersei will not prevent the slaughter._ Varys had hung his head in defeat. There was no gray matter in what she declared. She had decided that this was a fight against right and wrong, the good and the evil, and had pitted herself against Cersei, the two women like opposing figures on a cyvasse board, the light and the dark. Daenerys saw herself as the light, but how hot and how bright would that light burn? How many would it take with it? The image of the two made him wonder how she might have reacted to all this had her opponent been a man. Had she seen something of herself in Cersei and rejected it? Women trying to hold onto power by being as ruthless as the very men who had brought them low, their lessons shaped by their tormentors. Daenerys wanted to create her own mythos, one that had little use for facts.

_They should know who to blame when the sky falls down upon them._

But the children and the old, they wouldn’t find any comfort in Daenerys’s reasons for choosing to melt their flesh from their bones when the fires came. There would be no one left to lay any blame on their supposed enemy. It was up to Varys to fight for them, to protect the realm as he’d promised himself he would once he’d had his first taste of the power that riches and information had brought him. He was no longer a gutter rat selling off parts of himself to wicked men so that he might live. Varys recalled his conversation with Tyrion after they’d adjourned the war council.

_I’ve served tyrants all of my life. They all talk about destiny._

_She’s a girl who walked into a fire with three stones and came out with three dragons, how could she not believe in destiny?_

But that had been the problem, he realized. She believed it, saw herself truly as the people’s saviour. Adversity had only strengthened that belief - that she was some prophet come riding in on her dragon to save them all.

_How do you know she wasn’t?_ Tyrion had asked him. He understood the impulse, wanting to imagine as perhaps Jon Snow did, too, that Daenerys was an angel sent to deliver them. But Varys knew the look of the power hungry when he saw it. He had been blinded, too, at first, thinking she was the answer to all of the seven kingdoms’ problems. An answer to the ongoing wars, this new version of Queen Alysanne he had dreamed up in his head. She had seemed so perfect, her mythic rise capturing not only his attention but his hope for a better world. A woman who had come from nothing but a name, yet had chosen to spend her rise in power freeing the slaves, how could she not have been an antidote to the treachery and avarice he’d been entrenched in for so long? And now that those blinders had been ripped from his eyes, Varys felt drained and dispirited as he hadn’t been in years. There had been only one hope left, as he’d indicated to Tyrion.

_Then there’s the problem of Jon Snow. Perhaps it's actually a solution._

Tyrion was worried about treason, but Varys was already there, ready to see to the safety of the people through whatever means necessary. _Thoughts aren’t treason,_ he’d been reminded, but they both knew that they were. They would certainly be considered so in Daenerys’s mind. And once those thoughts were released, they could never be put back away again. He had known with certainty he would be compelled to act.

Tyrion had hoped marriage would solve their problem, grasping at straws, but Varys couldn’t see that way forward, either. Even if Snow grew to accept his aunt as a lover and take her as his wife, especially in the face of duty, what would become of the realm then? A peaceful reign that mimicked the days of Jaehaerys and Alysanne? No. Their amorous troubles aside, he’d seen how Jon Snow had bent and twisted himself to accept whatever Daenerys wished for. It might have been an attempt to temper her, as even Varys had approved of once, but for how long could Snow continue it? As he’d told Tyrion, the queen did not like having her authority questioned. Her will was as hard and as stuck as the iron in the blades of the throne she sought. She might have convinced herself that sitting upon it was an act for the people, but Varys could see the truth. _As long as I have my eyes, I’ll use them,_ he had told her once. Even if those eyes were plucked out in retaliation.

_So what will become of her?_

Tyrion had pleaded with him, realizing his intent, but Varys had already made up his mind. The first of his letters had been sent in secret, one evening at a time. And once the ravens arrived to their intended masters, word would spread quickly. And he hadn’t finished yet. It would take more than words to defeat Daenerys. Jaime Lannister had used his sword to save the city, but Varys would have to find other means less violent and less obvious.

His thoughts drifted to the chilling and horrible scene of Missandei’s execution, as it did in his nightmares, and he shivered in the sun at the memory as he slipped his hands into the fur-lined pockets of his tunic for warmth. Tyrion wouldn’t recount to him what he’d begged of his sister, standing under her shadow at the gates, but it hadn’t worked, whatever he’d said. Varys had stood with the royal envoy, his advice put to rest as he had watched Daenerys turn to her army and walk away from her friend’s body, her face contorted with her horrible thirst for vengeance. And then suddenly, in the face of such cruelty, Varys had remembered their conversation when they’d first landed at Dragonstone, with a vivid recreation. Standing around Aegon’s table, just as they had while Varys had pleaded with her to consider mercy, he remembered all of the words he’d employed to stave off her wrath. She had turned every hardship to her advantage, time and again, an incredible feat for anyone, let alone a woman. But that advantage had been so hard won, and kept coming with such a high cost, that he shuddered to realize what it had truly brought her. Total conviction in her destiny. _Do you believe we’re here for a reason_ , she had asked him. And strangely, he did believe it. He thought of all the ways he had suffered in his young life, and that such suffering had taught him resilience, to fear no one and nothing, for he had seen the very worst of the powerful and the elite and he had survived them and their depravity. And not only that, had thrived. It had all been for this moment, this journey. 

He recognized now how in those early days he had formed a kinship with Daenerys in his mind the more he had learned about her, thinking they were somehow the same. She saved the slaves, what could be more declarative and more noble than that? This idea that it made her a harbinger of a merciful rule fermented over their voyage to Essos. But Varys was not committed to burn everyone alive just so he would see his goals come to fruition. That was not him. He remembered his words to Olenna, when speaking of Littlefinger - _he would see this country burn if he could be king of the ashes._ And Varys had brought Daenerys to the country, had given her allies, only to see the worst of his fears bear that fruit like the darkest cherries, born of blood, their pits full of fire.

She had a single dragon left; her advisors falling away as her children had, one by one. No wise words of Barristan Selmy. No soothing guidance of Jorah Mormont. And with Missandei gone - an act which also provoked the usually steady commander of the Unsullied to be filled with his own rage and ready to tear down the city walls with his teeth - Daenerys was fast becoming mired in her raging grief, a building scream in her waiting to be unleashed. She shambled about the castle waiting for Jon and their armies to arrive like she’d had every color, every hue, sapped out of her skin, her warm and rosy glow that had brandished her gentleness at one time washed out of her at last. Varys had no time to wait for Jon Snow to wake up and make his claim for the Iron Throne. No, he had to force Snow’s hand and take it upon himself, to save the realm from Daenerys’s encroaching need to wipe the city away and rebuild it in her own image. No one held any illusion any longer about what awaited Cersei and the capital. Now was his time to act. 

He watched Drogon fly across his sightline, where he’d been staring at the clouds for the last hour. The biggest one of the three and an entity of awesome power. He wondered if the victims of Daenerys’s campaign across both continents felt anything when they burned under Drogon’s fiery retch. Such abject heat, even hotter than wildfire, the legends said, capable of turning the dirt into glass. Surely the body would not be able to comprehend such temperatures in that instance, the flesh crackling and blackening so swiftly, the mind would still be clinging to the moment before as it crumbled to ashes. Varys told himself that it would be hard to feel anything at all and he let the suggestion soothe him momentarily.

He sighed, the breath which left him as resigned as his spirit. He told Tyrion once that power resided where men believed it to reside. And he would direct their eyes to another, better power. Whatever the details of his claim, whether or not they could be proven, the lords of Westeros would believe that Jon Snow should sit on the throne if he convinced them of it. 

And so he would. The gods help him, he would do his part. No matter the cost, she had said. But it was the personal cost which should not matter. The people didn’t have to be sacrificed by the thousands if the price could be paid with a single life. He’d chosen one of the youngest girls from the kitchens to help him carry out his plan. Martha was small, and practically invisible. No one would suspect her.

Varys turned and made his way to his desk, more letters to write to fill up his afternoon.

* * *

  
  


_The star-sun sat over the Iron Throne as the snow fell, a bright column of white light between the stone behind it. The roof had been shorn away, the tops of the walls jutting into an overcast sky, but he recognized the room from countless images of the past._

_Snow falling, and then he was outside, a pale horse standing before him amidst the rubble. It stood patiently, its coat splattered with blood as small fires burned to either side of it, smoke rising. It wasn’t snow coming down that blanketed the ground, but ashes. He glanced behind him and a person walked into his vision, its sex indeterminable but its clothes burned away._

Then a cry filled his head and the scene shifted to the sky itself, and he saw the great body blot out the sun again, as he had for weeks, and it fell with another howl, blood spurting in a fountain’s spray. The child called for its mother in a gargled pain as it plunged into the sea.

He stood in the trees as the wind spoke. _Bran, no more climbing._

And then there was nothing but skin, as bodies moved, writhing against each other, a man and a woman.

The image of them cut quickly to the outside, men around a campfire chanting, and Jon sat with them, his legs crossed where he sat on the ground as he held out his arm with the underside exposed, the flesh pale but for the marks dotted along its edge. The hooked sword was pulled from the fire, glowing orange with its heat encased in the steel, and it came toward Jon as he sat rigid, the chants growing louder as he stared into the flames.

Bodies moving. So much flesh, he wanted to look away. But he heard the woman’s moans, her cries. _I love you._ And then the man pulled back and Jon looked down with madness in his eyes.

_A blast of white light inundated his mind’s eye, and then the red woman appeared, slowly coming into focus, and she smiled at him as she peeled back her robes._

She dissolved into a woman he recognized who stood on a stage atop the city’s walls, the scorpion behind her. “Dracarys!” she uttered in her rage. He looked away from the rest.

A blink. And then he was outside, by a campfire. Jon’s face filled his vision. _Wake up now, Bran._

He sat up in his bed with a great gasp for breath, as if he’d come up from the ocean. The heart pounded in this frail body and he blinked again into the night, trying to see by the sliver of light which fell through his window. He felt across the stand beside his bed and his fingers knocked into the small instrument that sat there, tipping it over. Bran felt for its handle and lifted it, the tinkle of the bell ringing through the blackness.

He used the rope above his head to pull himself up straighter and waited. There was a thump against the wall, and then a few minutes later a door closed. The next minute, his own door opened and the torches brought in more light to cast its glow into the room, the person standing there a black silhouette.

“My lord? Did you have need of me?”

“I need to make water,” Bran said.

“Of course. Let me light some candles first.”

Podrick moved about the room and he heard the snick of a match as first one flame burned, then another. Podrick went and closed the door when there was proper light flooding the space and then went to fetch the chamber pot. As he came up to Bran’s bedside, he smiled warmly, completely unperturbed by being called from his sleep in the middle of the night.

The furs were pulled back and then Podrick moved the boy’s legs to the side, helped this body move to its edge. He went about the business of relieving the strain in his bladder, the sound magnified by the quiet of the castle. When he was done, Podrick went to take the pot to the other side of the room for the morning maids.

“I’d like to go for a stroll,” Bran told him.

“My lord? Its - it’s quite late.”

“Yes. So it is.”

The lad watched him for but a moment before moving into action, collecting the chair that sat at the end of his bed. He brought it to him, and then went about dressing Bran in a robe and slippers before easing him into the seat. The chair moved and then they were out in the corridor, torches still burning along the walls but no guards present. There were fewer in the keep, with most men on the way to King’s Landing with Jon, but as Podrick rolled him down the hallway, he saw one at the end standing at his post, looking glum and bored. As soon as the guard saw them, he straightened to attention.

“M’lord! Is there a problem?”

“No, I’m fine, Lucas. I have Podrick with me.” He looked to either side of him, where the adjacent hall ran north and south. “Have you seen Lady Sansa?” He knew she walked the corridors late at night, unable to sleep.

Lucas looked surprised. Without saying anything, he pointed to the northern wing of the castle.

“Let’s go in that direction, Podrick.”

They found her not long after, where she stood by the long arched windows staring out into the night where the godswood lay. Her hair tumbled down, gleaming bright copper streaks from the light of the torches. She turned back to see them coming, her face not particularly surprised but glistening diamonds studding the tops of her cheeks. Quickly, she looked back to the window and wiped away her tears, her shoulders stiffening.

“Is everything alright?” she asked aloud when they came close enough.

“You tell me,” Bran said. She glanced back sharply, her eyes flicking over this face greedily before snapping up to the boy behind him.

“Podrick, you can go now. I’ll take care of my brother from here.”

“Of course, Lady Sansa.” 

The young man left them and Bran took note of Sansa’s muted expression again. She looked tired, all of her emotions ravaged over days with nothing left to them but tatters.

“What are you doing up so late?” she asked.

“I could ask the same of you,” he replied. A stab of painful recognition shone in her eyes before she turned away from him, looking back down at the godswood.

“I can’t sleep. Not until I know that Jon and Arya are safe, somewhere.”

“I told you, Arya is with the Hound on the Kingsroad. Jon is a dozen leagues behind her with the van.”

Eyes shifted back in his direction, with a hopeful gleam. “And did Jon receive my raven?”

“He did.”

He didn’t expound any further, and after a moment, she sighed and turned to face him, annoyance creeping into her features.

“ _And?_ What did he do? What did he say?”

He shrugged with ambivalence. She wouldn’t like the answer. “He suggested you let this go. He was not keen to hear an explanation.”

She screwed up her face in distress, eyes shut, before taking a breath, the fur around her shoulders ruffling from it. Her cloak covered her completely as she kept it wrapped round her body. 

“So, that’s it then?”

“What is?”

She shook her head and spoke dully. “Jon has no plan other than to follow her into the fire.”

“I think there is a plan in place,” he reminded her. “You heard it yourself.”

“He lied to me.”

“Did he?”

Sansa whipped her head towards him. “He said he wouldn’t go,” she admitted.

“I don’t think he did.” He heard the words again. “I don’t think he had much of a choice. Why did you ask him? What did you hope to gain?”

But her gaze narrowed at him with a keen observance. “Father went down there and died. After losing his own father and brother in the capital to the Mad King. Then Robb went south and died. And you ask me what I hoped for? I don’t want Jon to die. He’s already tempted the gods twice down there already.”

“And yet, you seek to position him on the Throne?”

Shock slammed into her, her eyes riveted to him, before she glanced up at their surroundings. 

“Let us speak elsewhere, Bran. Why don’t I take you back to your room.”

“If you must,” he said sedately.

He let her guide his chair, turning it back towards the direction where he’d just come from. 

“You’re going to receive a letter in the next day or two. From Tyrion. They lost another dragon.”

His chair stopped moving.

“What are you talking about? How?”

He turned his head, unable to see her still. “Euron Greyjoy and his ships were lying in wait at Dragonstone. They killed Rhaegal with a bolt from a scorpion, as Meraxes was once brought down.” He had seen the vision before. The boy had tried to warn Jon.

“How does one lie in wait for a dragon while on an open sea?” 

“It was only half a dozen ships tucked in the inlet on the other side of the fortress.”

She scoffed. “Is that everything? Where is Jon?”

“As of this morning, Jon is half a day away from the Twins, where he’ll be following the Green Fork. He doesn’t know yet. While the queen has been dealt another blow.”

His chair resumed rolling down the corridor and he could practically hear Sansa’s churning thoughts.

“What other blow?”

“In the attack from the Iron Fleet, several of their ships were sunk and the queen’s advisor, Missandei, was taken from the fleeing skiff. Cersei held her hostage until Daenerys arrived at the gates. The negotiations for surrender did not go well. Missandei was beheaded.”

It was quiet for a minute as Sansa absorbed the news. “I imagine the queen is very upset right about now.”

“Yes.”

“And she waits for Jon.”

“Among other things.”

They continued on, Bran staying silent until Sansa felt the need to comment. When they arrived back at his door, she quickly rolled him inside and closed it behind them before turning his chair around to face her.

“What do you know?”

“About what?”

Sansa grit her teeth but there was fear in her face. “Don’t play around with me, Bran. I’ve no time for your riddles. Just tell me. What have you seen - that involves me?”

“What do you think I’ve seen?”

She let out a harsh breath, shutting her eyes for a moment. Then she suddenly turned away from him, waltzing to his bed to sit on its edge. “That I’ve done something,” she confessed quietly, her voice squeaking as if she had no air in her. Sansa raised her eyes, the fear turned to shame. “Oh, Bran. I don’t know what to do.”

“You told Tyrion,” he revealed. Her eyes widened, but then she slowly nodded. 

“And now I worry what she’ll do to Jon if Tyrion tells her.”

“You didn’t consider that before?” he said, understanding by the flinch in her face that it might have come off callously. 

“Well, has he? Does she know?” She busied herself with her hands, picking at the fur trim along her cloak where it lay open. “I mean, with all that’s happened, surely her mind is on her own troubles. Would Tyrion even say anything before Jon gets there? Or has he shared it with her council? You must tell me what you’ve seen.”

“The news will take on a life of its own once it's been released to the winds of Westeros,” he said. “There are others besides Tyrion who would make use of the truth.”

Her eyes flicked up to meet his. “Someone else will betray her? One of her advisors?”

“She has precious few of them left. Tyrion still wants her on the throne. His concern lies with the means whereby Daenerys will attain it.”

“So that leaves Varys. The commanders of her armies are devoted to her. If he decides she’s not fit, the lords of Westeros will hear of it.”

“I suppose they will.”

“And if she and Jon sack the city, what will happen then?”

He saw his vision of the throne room again, the light from between the stone suffused with an eerie glow. “I don’t know, Sansa.”

But she grew frustrated with him. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

“You speak as if he is in danger. What is it that you imagine Daenerys will do to Jon? She loves him.”

Sansa scoffed again. “You’ve seen that, too?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted.

She snapped her head up at that. “Have you now? All of it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” 

Sansa stood up and came closer to him, her expression turning shrewd. “You must know by now that our brother intentionally hurts himself. Or has his queen do it for him. Surely you’ve seen it.”

In his mind, he frowned. The boy didn’t like that. He saw Jon sitting before the fire from his dream, and other images followed in a shuttering speed, the last one of Jon’s eyes rolling back as he tried not to scream, something heavy stuffed into his mouth. Bran saw a girl, her forehead pressed flat against the granite stone of the wall as she peered through the holes.

“And what do you know of it?”

Suddenly, she kneeled down in front of him, her shame returned. “I know too much.”

“You’ve seen it yourself,” he deduced. “Perhaps you’ve helped him, too.”

She threw herself forward and clutched his knees in her grip. “Bran, you must know …. I only ever … I _was_ trying to help him. He asked me and I - I didn’t know how to refuse him.”

“Because you’re in love with him.”

Her eyes went wider still, mouth dropped open. In the next beat, she recovered, but looked away from him, her hair hanging in her face. “Bran,” she said, her voice thick with her guilt. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I did something .. we did something. And I don’t know how to stop it. I thought it would go away when he left,” her breath hitched as she slumped back on her heels, “and then … then you were here, and Arya came and all the time, I thought if he just returned, we would be a family again. We would be a _normal_ family. But then he came back and I still had the same … the same feelings.” She began to cry, a thick sob in her throat. “And they won’t stop. I can’t - I can’t make them go away. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what we were, I only knew that I felt stronger with him, and he felt … it felt good with him.” She glanced up quickly, the anguish gushing into her features, and then she dropped her forehead to his knees, another great sob hiccuping from her as she trembled there. He looked passively on, the emotions of humans never changing through the ages. He saw the image of Bran’s mother in the same pose, in another room, her cries to her young husband. Sansa’s shame rushed through her as she spoke between gasps.

“I should have told you. I should have told you both. But I wanted him safe. And then, I just wanted him,” she wept. She looked up, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Bran, you must believe me. I didn’t mean to - I thought that it couldn’t be wrong. It shouldn’t be. What we felt for each other. It wasn’t like Ramsay, what he did. Jon is a good man. He’s tender and kind and he loves me. And how could that be wrong, to care for each other, to share that love? We didn’t hurt anyone. I needed him. And he needed me, I know he did.”

“And then he left to meet the dragon queen,” Bran finished. “And fell in love with her.”

She reared back as if she’d been struck. “Why do you relish in hurting me? Does being the Three-Eyed Raven means it's alright to be cruel?”

“I have no wish to hurt you, Sansa. I don’t wish for anything anymore. But Jon does love her. And now he’s betrayed her.”

Fear returned to her eyes. “You don’t think he’ll … he wouldn’t tell her, would he?”

But he knew this was a dangerous road to go down and moved her past it, understanding that the two had gone through something very powerful together and there was no telling what impact it might still have on them both. “I don’t know what he’ll do. Jon needs to feel purpose and will want to see to his duty. We can only wait.” He cocked his head. “You said it yourself. No one can protect anyone. Jon has a role to play, still.”

“And what does that mean, exactly?”

“Jon is no Maester Aemon.”

She furrowed her brow. “I don’t understand.”

He sighed as he thought of what was coming. “I’m sorry. I grow tired. I think I’m ready to sleep now.” The visions would leave him alone for the rest of the night.

Sansa stared back at him, her expression frozen in disbelief at first before caving into disappointment. “Oh. I see. All right.” A hand clutched his knee again, and she used it to climb up from the floor, not that he could feel her weight. She wiped the backs of both hands across her cheeks, returning to her fastidious demeanor as she tidied herself. “Of course. Let’s get you back to bed.”

As Jon had done several times before, Sansa had him hold her by the neck so she could lift him and ease his body back onto the feather bed, moving his legs up and under the covers. She was a stronger girl than she appeared. She fussed over him, smoothing the furs across him. Then she went to extinguish the lights in the room.

When she was finished snuffing out the candles, she shuffled over to him and sat on the edge of the bed's frame, her head bent as she looked at his hands resting on the furs. 

“Did you tell Arya? Is that why she left?”

“Why would I do that?” he said. “It is your story to tell.”

She glanced up at him. “You didn’t say anything to Jon? That you knew about us?”

“I told him what you felt for him.”

Sansa didn’t move, her eyes closing as a lone tear rolled from her lashes. “And Jon?” she asked softly, almost a whisper. “What does he feel? About me?”

And for a moment, Bran saw Jon sitting before the fire again, calm and ready, his arm turned up as the chants grew louder.

“Jon doesn’t want to feel anything,” he told her. “About anyone.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


He watched the flames flicker.

Jon sat in his tent, at his desk but facing the brazier beside it, his arms resting on his legs as he felt hypnotized by the fire before him. He’d been staring at it for close to an hour. Did he hope for a vision? Some sign to help him see a way forward? Or did it just call to him, the memory of Daenerys slipping her hand right through the basket’s weave and into the blaze back on Dragonstone, appearing before him over and over? Or perhaps he was just spending the time talking himself into the dare. His sleeve was rolled back on one arm - the one that still bore perfect teeth marks in his flesh, a circle of them where Sansa had savaged her need right into him leaving little indented bruises after the blood dried.

He hadn’t been intimate with Daenerys in over a month - it would be two moons by the time he saw her again. And yet, she would know straight away. She would see it in his face. And on his body, if she bothered to push back a sleeve. Would Sansa’s handiwork be healed and indistinguishable by the time he arrived? He had no idea, but it didn’t matter, the rest of him would shine with his guilt at what he had done.

And why had he done it? He still couldn’t answer that question; had not been able to recognize what had come over him with such swiftness and such fury in that moment. _She’s in love with you, you know._ He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge it, had wanted to reject it as another manipulation. But Sansa believed it, Jon knew that much. He’d known it for a while now, deep down where he’d buried all those truths he couldn’t bear to look at. And he began to wonder if he had feared it, even after learning who his father and mother were, because it put into question everything he felt for Dany. Was his love for her real? It felt so strong, and so consuming, he couldn’t perceive it as anything else, but what if he’d simply _needed_ to love Daenerys? Denying Sansa’s feelings for him meant he had to take a closer look at his own. What the dragon queen had meant for him, the relief she had brought him. He had needed Dany. The way that Sansa had needed him.

The shame that had lived in his body as he’d made his way to Dragonstone had been replaced with something darker, and he feared that, too. Afraid of where it would lead him. Daenerys might be his family but he was in love with her still. That he hadn’t been able to be intimate with her the way they had both wanted continued to trouble him. Yet how could he possibly bridge that intimacy after his awful betrayal unless he’d confessed what he’d done? And more importantly, how would she react? She would already feel betrayed for his decision to tell Sansa and Arya the truth. Jon no longer knew how to live between them, his Stark and Targaryen families. He had told Theon once that he didn’t have to choose, but this was something else altogether. Dany had been through enough. What would this do to her? 

But there was one thought that wouldn't go away, a persistent whisper at the back of his mind that continued to grow louder.

For their entire journey to Winterfell, Jon had lain with Dany practically every night, and each time he’d spent inside her, filling her with his seed. What would he find when he reached Dragonstone? Would Daenerys greet him with a belly that had begun to swell, firm with the life they made? Could that be the sign he so desperately longed for? A catalyst to move him past the guilt holding him in stasis. He would be able to love her, to be with her, finally, as they brought a child into the world together, and his secret would stay with his family and no one would have to know, while everything that had happened with Sansa could finally begin to fade into the past.

And perhaps the coming of a child might temper her. 

The question that plagued him, however, was a simple one. Could he do it? Ned Stark, the lord father who had taught him that honour was everything, had managed to lie, after all. Had lied to Jon his whole life to keep him safe - as well as to his wife, to his children, to his brother. He understood that Ned kept the truth from him so as not to endanger him or anyone else, and had carried that burden on his own shoulders through everything. But could Jon lie to the woman he loved? He had to decide.

Looking at the inside of his forearm again, he saw the teeth marks in the flickering light as if they were grinning wide, mocking him. He held his arm out in front of him, bringing his flesh to the edge of the brazier, staring at the flames as they enticed him to come closer. Fire would cleanse it, would burn it away, and take with it Sansa’s magic, or whatever this power was that she held him with no matter how he tried to resist. He needed it to be gone so he could look Dany in the eye again.

It would hurt. He had no illusion about that, flexing his hand with the old burn marks as he brought his arm over the lip of the grating. He felt the heat scorch him, the flames licking towards the pale skin and the marks there glowing black and red. The pain would be good, purifying, necessary. He could do this. He inched it closer to the fire, his arm already feeling as though it burned, when suddenly there was a rustle at his tent flap and Jon dashed his arm backwards and into his chest.

He looked up, his heart beating wildly.

Gareth had rushed in, the fire casting goblin shadows on his helmet. “Lord Jon, sorry to disturb you.”

“Yes? What is it?”

“A rider from the Crossroads has delivered an urgent letter. It looks like Lord Tyrion’s seal.”

Jon stood up and snatched the long scroll from the boy’s hand. A lone rider coming north on the Kingsroad from the inn would have taken several days at least to have reached their camp. He unrolled it and read through the words, shock taking hold of him.

“Is everything alright, my lord?”

Things were not alright at all. News from Dragonstone painted a very dire picture for the people of King’s Landing. Daenerys needed him.

“Gareth, go find Ser Davos and tell him I need to see him immediately. Then go round up the rest of your unit and meet me back here. We ride in the early morning.”

“Yes, my lord. At once.” He turned to rush back out of the tent.

“Gareth? Wait.”

The lad spun on his heel and regarded him with widened eyes. 

It occurred to him that it might have taken more than the Three-Eyed Raven to find him the other morning. Had someone else been supplying information?

“Gareth. I know you have been in contact with my sister since we left Winterfell,” he guessed. The boy’s mouth dropped, fear in his eyes.

“Lord Jon -”

“It’s all right, Gareth,” Jon said quickly, not trying to scare him. “I know you have a … special arrangement with Lady Sansa. That she relies on you to discover what goes on between the Northern lords and the guests of the castle which she might need to know about. But I need your attention here, Gareth. I don’t aim to divide your loyalty, but understand that you are in my guard and I need you to act on my command without question. I can’t have you feeding her information on my every movement.”

Gareth was further surprised by Jon’s candidness, but did not look away, keeping pale blue eyes on his face.

“My lord, she asked me to … to help her. She is my liege. I did as I was ordered to.”

“Of course you did. And I understand that. You did right by her, I don’t fault you for any of it. But we are at war, and the Lady Sansa has the North to attend to. I need to know that you will abide by my orders and leave her out of this. It’s important.”

The lad looked nervous, but studied Jon with a sober understanding. After a moment, he nodded in agreement. “You have my word, Lord Jon.” He turned to go.

“Gareth,” Jon called again, wanting to ease the boy’s conscience. Gareth looked back at him in expectation. While Jon might have cast aspersions with the suggestion that Gareth was slow-witted, he knew the boy had some wits about him, that he was not without good sense.

Jon took a step closer to him, his voice lower. “Gareth. I know my sister is very beautiful. And to be seen by her is a wondrous thing, her attention like having the sun shine down solely for you. She can be very persuasive. But you are your own man, Gareth. Remember that. Remember who you are.”

“I am a soldier for the Starks of Winterfell,” Gareth told him. “I would lay down my life for her,” he admitted easily, the alarm in his face at Jon’s knowledge quick to wane. “As I would for you, my lord.”

_I’m not a Stark,_ his mind supplied instinctively, but Jon stayed silent. He was Lyanna Stark’s son, after all. Stark blood ran through his veins. Instead, he nodded to the boy. “Aye, I know it. We all must do our duty to those we’ve sworn to protect. And in so doing, it often means that we must put aside our own emotions, our own wants, and consider the greater purpose. We can’t be selfish about our desires, even if those whom we owe our allegiance to want us to give in to it.” 

The reminder was as much for himself as it was for the lad and Jon was emboldened by the words. _Love is the death of duty,_ Maester Ameon had said to him once. And Jon would do his duty. Was comforted by it.

The boy nodded to him again, only this time there seemed to be something darker in his gaze, his stance stiffening. “I understand, my lord.”

“Good. I’m glad we were able to have this talk then. Now go, and find Ser Davos.”

Gareth left in haste and Jon glanced down at his arm, the sleeve still rolled back and Sansa’s lust imprisoned in his flesh. He sighed and walked past the brazier, returning to his seat at his desk as he rolled the sleeve down. A handful of minutes later, the tent flap was swept aside once more and Davos strode in, concern stamped in his features.

“Jon, what’s happened?” 

“I received a letter from Tyrion," he began, holding it up. "They were ambushed as they arrived at Dragonstone. Rhaegal was killed.”

Davos glanced at the parchment, gritting his teeth. “That is very bad news. I’m sorry to hear it. Are you alright?”

"I'm fine," Jon said automatically, surprised by the question. The fact that Rhaegal was gone hadn’t quite sunk in yet, but a part of him wondered if he’d expected it. Strangely, the idea took root that perhaps there was a reason he hadn’t been immediately attuned to this loss - that whatever connection had formed between them in his mind ultimately hadn’t been terribly strong. There was no premonition, no sudden pain that reached out to him at the moment of death. Perhaps he was being overly sentimental. He felt no special warning when his father or Robb died, either. But he had no time to dwell on it. He stood up and walked to where a table was covered with their maps.

“It’s the queen I’m worried about. This wasn’t her only loss. During the attack, Missandei was taken by Greyjoy. Daenerys spoke with her council on Dragonstone to make plans for a retaliation, but I gather Tyrion talked her into an attempt to negotiate with Cersei. They took part of their forces to treat with her at the city gates. Cersei didn’t listen and Missandei was executed.” He handed Davos the letter as the man came up next to him.

“Seven hells,” Davos uttered, his shock palpable as he scanned over the writing. He looked at Jon in knowing. There would be no further negotiating. The city was about to find out what it meant to cross Daenerys Stormborn.

“I’m leaving you in charge of the host. Let Royce and the captains know the news in the morning. Continue on to King’s Landing, we need to get there as fast as the men can move. I’m leaving with my guard before the sun rises.” He pointed down to the map spread out with its various markers resting upon it. “I’ll head for Maidenpool and see if we can’t take a galley around Cracklaw Point to Dragonstone.”

“Makes sense.” Davos followed his finger on the map and pointed at another option. “Gulltown is the biggest port, but you don’t want to travel through the Vale if speed is required, as the terrain will only slow you down. Once you get to Darry castle at the Trident, though, you can take a skiff down the rest of the Fork, and row right into the Bay of Crabs. You’ll arrive in the harbor before nightfall if you start early enough. The winds won’t be as swift until you get out to the open sea, but with a three-masted ship, you can make Dragonstone in two days time.”

Jon imagined that every day Daenerys had been growing worse while he marched on the Kingsroad, her grief too much to bear and Tyrion providing little comfort. Her advisors had failed her again.

“I need to get there as soon as I can, Davos.”

Davos shrugged. “You could ride all the way down to Duskendale. It’s a clear enough shot, but it’s too risky. You’ll be too exposed. Maidenpool it is. Mooten is back in control, with Randyll Tarly’s forces gone.” He put a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Just promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I won’t be on my own,” Jon reminded him. 

“Of course. The men with you are a good crew. But I’m talking about once you get there.”

Jon didn’t want to say it aloud, but both of them knew from her many overtures at Winterfell during the final war council that Daenerys’s patience had run out. She would be ready to rain fire down on the capital. Davos seemed to imply something more personal, however, and Jon worried that his second was too observant and perceptive for his own good. Certainly his many questions about Sansa had indicated he knew something was up between the three of them. Jon didn’t even know what he was going to say to Dany when he got there, but he needed to come up with something. His thoughts went to the teeth marks again and he swallowed hard at the image of Dany’s face if she were to see them. His arm itched with a terrible insistence. 

“I’ll be fine, Davos. I’ll send a raven to Tyrion before I leave on our change of plans. Go get some sleep. I’ve got Gareth collecting the men who are going with me. Follow the plan. We’ll see you at the city gates then.”

Davos paused a moment, the intelligence in his eyes showing a need to say something more, but instead, he nodded tightly and left.

Jon glanced back at this desk and the brazier, flames still wavering there, and then he turned and followed Davos out of his tent. He stepped into the night, plenty of activity still afoot as men hustled about preparing for the next day. The cold had begun to fade, warm breezes from the south suffusing the air and the snow on the ground already melting. He looked to the west and envisioned the Twins where they stood a hundred miles away. Jon thought of his brother again, murdered there for breaking his vow and marrying for love. He thought of Arya, her need to avenge him laying waste to the Freys. The violence continued on in a song, there was no end to it. And he would engage in more violence on his queen’s behalf. He tried to imagine her right now, with the miles between them, how she would be feeling, what she might be doing, and the sights and sounds of the Dothraki’s night of worship came back in an instant, her dancing by the fire capturing his fevered mind. He looked behind him, where he knew the line would continue on for another mile, and began to walk, the men noticing him and nodding with eager smiles as he passed them.

He walked until he heard the voices change - from the gruff lilts of Northern men to the deep, coarse grumbling of the Dothraki, as they sat around their fires and spoke in serious tones, but with an occasional levity passing amongst them. Jon strode up to the group where Hokharo sat, recognizing him with his bloodriders. Qhono had died in the battle for the dawn and so Hokharo had become Daenerys’s general, his hulking figure a silent but commanding presence at the war council. The Dothraki had seemed subdued on this march, keeping to themselves, and Jon felt acutely aware of their eyes turning to watch him with a burning interest as he came over.

_“M'athchomaroon,”_ he said to them as he nodded his respects.

_“Athchomar chomakaan,”_ Hokharo greeted. A slow smile bloomed upon his face, above a thick beard, and his dark rimmed eyes glinting with a devilish merriment. “Khal Jon,” he added, the other men nodding with an amused air. Jon suspected Ornela and Zhiqi had spoken of him thusly when talking to their people.

“Um, I’m sorry, I don’t speak your tongue well enough. _Yer chomoe anna._ I hope you and your men have had a good ride so far. Er, _hash yer dothrae chek,”_ he remembered.

_“Anha dothrak chek asshekh, Khal Jon,”_ Hokharo said. “We speak common tongue better now.”

“Yes, you do. I wanted to inform you on what’s happened. News from Dragonstone came moments ago. The queen … has lost another dragon. _Zhavvorsa drivo.”_

Eyes shifted in the glow of the flames as the men glanced knowingly to each other. Jon continued on.

“They were ambushed on their arrival. Khaleesi’s advisor, Missandei, was taken and killed.”

_“Ki fin yeni!_ Khaleesi angry,” one of the men muttered. 

“Yes, I imagine she will be. That’s why I’m leaving before the dawn to make my way to Dragonstone. Ser Davos will be taking the host the rest of the way to the capital.”

There were several glances his way and then back to Hokharo. _“Athijezar,”_ someone muttered and the others laughed. Jon felt immediately awkward.

“I don’t understand,” he said, hoping for a translation.

Hokharo gave him that unnerving smile again. “Khaleesi … she ride on top, he say,” the man explained, using his hands in a pushing motion that mimicked a sexual act. Jon felt the heat roll into his cheeks as he took note of the way the other men looked at him. Jon was reminded that they had watched Dany’s display of affection towards him during their dancing back at Winterfell. It had become known that he was favored. He felt a rise in his chest, a sudden spasm of anger.

“Not always,” he said dismissively.

It was quiet for a moment, but then the men all laughed heartily, looking back at him as they nodded heads vigorously with their respect.

Hokharo tipped his chin towards the empty space beside him. “ _Finne ajjin yeri_ _ver_ ,” he noted. He held up a hand to signify something of great height. “You no bring wolf.”

“I left Ghost up North, where he belongs.”

He wasn’t sure if they understood him or not, but they all nodded in agreement.

“We see you fight,” another one said. “With _drivi._ You _zhavvorsa sajak.”_

“With the dead? Yes. We thought we’d lost you all. The Dothraki are very brave to face the _drivi._ ” He knew they called him a dragon rider, because Ornela had called him that, too.

Hokharo waved a hand out to the area on the other side of the fire, indicating that Jon should sit with them. Jon nodded his gratitude and moved into their circle to sit down, unstrapping his belt so he could wrap it around Longclaw and set his sword beside him. There were rough blankets thrown on the ground and Jon crossed his legs as they did, feeling the warmth of the fire rush his face.

“This is Dozo.” Hokharo began introductions and called out their names, the men each nodding to Jon as he went round. “Krovvo. Oggo. Haji. Bhatho.”

Jon nodded back. _“M'athchomaroon,”_ he greeted them again.

_“Drivi_ touch you,” Hokharo said. “Is inside you.”

“Yes,” Jon acknowledged. “I feel them still. It's so very cold, where death touches you. It’s like … you can never be fully warm again.”

“Fire take out spirits,” Dozo said. _“Me nem nesa.”_

“What do you mean?” Jon asked.

The man pulled back the thick furs of his vest and Jon could see, even across the flames of their campfire, a knot of distorted tissue on the skin of his chest. “I chase out.”

A hot spark in his entrails rose up and through him, excitement throttling his nerves. “You burned yourself?”

They all nodded solemnly. Jon watched the flames dance before his eyes, calling to him while his arm itched with a maddening intensity.

“Can you show me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The spacing on this chapter is a bit wider because I switched over to google docs to write the entire thing, instead of word. Don't know if its wasted space or easier to read, but there are some things about Word that I still prefer, I think.


End file.
